Trouble
by Bluesunkatsuri
Summary: Born into a civil war, thrown into a world war. Northern Ireland's youth seems to be full of misfortune and battle. But the real Troubles are only just beginning... *Part 2 of my Historical Hetalia series, sequel to Rising. Warning: violence, language, general angst and drama*
1. Chapter 1

**This is a sequel to my previous fic, Rising. I usually try to make it so that one can be read apart from the other, but so much happened in Rising, I strongly advise you to read that before you read Trouble. Just some advice.**

**And the human names I use for my two Irish OCs: Republic of Ireland - Cearul; Northern Ireland - Coineach**

**And of course: Wales - Dylan and Scotland - Allistair, but those are so commonly used I hardly feel I should list them.**

**Other than that, I do not have much to say about this story, not even on the first chapter... So yeah.**

**Here's my newest fanfic: Trouble**

* * *

It was September 29, 1938, early in the morning. In fact, it was a time when most people in Ireland would still be asleep. But Northern Ireland wasn't 'most people', and because he was not, neither was Ireland, much to the older nation's dismay.

"So Arthur, Allistair and Dylan are in Germany by now?" Northern Ireland, a boy of seventeen years old but with the appearance of a five-year-old, asked his oldest brother as he sat beside him on his bed. Ireland grunted, burying his face in his pillow, wishing he could sleep again, if only for another hour. It was still dark out, and in September, that could only mean it was ridiculously early. He knew Northern Ireland wouldn't grow up as fast as a human, and that would mean he'd be a child at heart for a long time as well, but he had hoped the kid would at least develop a biological clock and sleep a bit longer. So far, his prayers hadn't been heard a single day yet.

"Yes," he mumbled into his pillow, not even caring if North could hear him or not. "Yes, they are. In fact, they arrived yesterday evening, most likely. But Coineach, please, I-" Northern Ireland didn't even let him finish, crawling onto his brother's back and sitting down just under his shoulders. He would keep his big brother awake no matter what, he seemed to have decided, and Ireland only sighed again. It was in the mornings that he was glad this child was raised mostly by his younger brothers in Great Britain, and in the afternoons that he missed him regularly. Now that his little brothers were going to a meeting in Munich, however, Northern Ireland was under his care for the week, and though he'd been looking forward to seeing him again, he loathed the mornings with all his heart.

"Why are they in Germany? And where in Germany are they? Do you know when they'll be back? Cearul?" The child's questions practically came streaming over his lips, and at this point, Ireland gave up the hope of being able to sleep again this morning and just answered his questions. "They are there to meet with Germany an' Prussia an' then some other nations -no, I do not know exactly which ones, but I guess France is there, too. Anyway, Germany broke some rules, an' they're going to discuss that with the lad. They'll be back by the end o'this week, I'm sure." He then realised he'd forgotten to answer one of the kid's questions, and quickly he answered it, before North would start nagging him about it again. "They're in Munich. That's in the South...East."

"South or East?"

"Both." Though he didn't quite understand, Northern Ireland was satisfied with the answer, and he layed down on his brother's back, hugging his shoulders, thanking him. Ireland only hummed, not nearly awake enough for all this. "Now you need to get out of bed," North mumbled eventually, earning another grunt from his brother. "You promised me you'd teach me how to use a bow today!" Ireland sighed, mumbling a soft, "I did, didn't I...?" Northern Ireland nodded excitedly, a huge smile on his face as he looked down at his brother. Then, Ireland turned around and to his side instead, and North slid off his back. The older Irishman then looked over his shoulder at the child, his gaze warm but hard. "Okay, I will. But Coineach, if ye want me t'be awake enough to teach ye, _please, _let me sleep for just another hour. _One hour._ And ye should rest up a bit, as well, or ye'll fall asleep again in the afternoon."

Northern Ireland pouted for a moment but didn't object. Silently, he nodded, then leaned over to Ireland and gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek before getting off the bed and leaving. Just before he left the room, though, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Maybe you shouldn't stay up all night and drink your scotch, then you'd get up earlier." There was a definite hint of a Welsh accent in his voice as the kid spoke, which made Ireland realise he was repeating something he'd heard Wales say to Scotland sometime. With a smile, the Irishman closed his eyes and heard the door to his bedroom being closed very softly. Oh, how he loved that kid...

* * *

In the afternoon that day, in Munich, the three brothers that made up Great Britain just entered the conference building. They were in a slight hurry, as the meeting was about to start and they only just arrived. And they weren't even in the conference room yet. "Ah, it'll be fine, Artie," Scotland said to his little brother, patting him on the shoulder. "They'll wait for us. An' we'll be what, two minutes late? No worries." England huffed and nodded. Scotland was right, after all. However, when they found the meeting wouldn't take place on the ground floor and they had to go up a flight of stairs, they stopped. "Well," Wales sighed after a moment of silence, grimacing a bit though also smiling as he stared at the stairs. "This is either the point where we give up hope of arriving in time, or the point where you abandon me. Your choice." Scotland shook his head, amused, while England only rolled his eyes. "Maybe we should have mentioned beforehand that we have a disabled man with us," he sighed. "Maybe they'd have been considerate enough to meet on the ground floor instead. Oh well, I guess we don't have a choice." Scotland nodded, already bending down and picking up Wales, who held on to his brother's shoulders tightly while England picked up his brother's wheelchair. Seventeen years ago, near the end of the Irish War of Independence, there had been an accident that had broken Wales' spine, and ever since then he'd been paralysed from the waist down. It had been so long since then, he was hardly bothered by it anymore, but moments like these were still a problem. Thank goodness he always had his brothers with him, and if not, he could get help from others if necessary. The rest of the world still didn't know about it, though, as the brothers hadn't spoken a word of it to another nation. Today would be the day most of Europe would find out, and because of that, the world would soon follow.

"Well, at least we have a perfect excuse to be late," Wales said as his older brother carried him up the stairs. "I mean, they can't blame us. We can blame them, even." Scotland laughed, waiting for England at the top of the stairs to place the wheelchair beside him. When he did, he placed his little brother back into it, and together, the three nations went to the conference room together. England was the first to enter, immediately apologising, "I'm sorry for the slight delay, but I'm afraid we had a bit of trouble with the staircase." He wasn't even finished speaking when Wales rolled in behind him, followed by Scotland, and the moment England was done speaking, a shocked silence fell in the large room, all eyes on Wales. The Welshman just shrugged and went to his place, reaching to grab the chair that stood there and move it aside, but North Italy, wide-eyed, had already gotten to his feet and did it for him. "_Galle,_" he asked then as he went back to his own seat. "If it's okay to ask, how did... how did this happen? I don't think anyone else here knew about this, right...?"

Wales shook his head as his brothers sat down beside him, ready for the meeting now. "No, indeed, they didn't. I'll just explain it now for everyone to hear, and I want no questions anymore after that, alright?" Several nations nodded or mumbled an agreement to this, others remained silent and motionless as Wales began his explanation, "Seventeen years ago, during April 1921, there was an accident that broke my spine. Because there was another nation involved in it, the damage is permanent. Most likely, I'll be stuck in this for the rest of my life. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" Most of the nations now nodded and didn't say a word anymore. Only North Italy whispered in pure shock, "_Diciassette anni... questo è orribile_. I'm sorry to hear that, _Galle_." The mediterranean nation then got a poke in the side from his older twin, South Italy, and was silenced by him like that. Wales was glad the others had listened to his request and didn't say a word more. He didn't want to tell the whole story. He wouldn't say a word about what had happened that day, and most of all, he wouldn't say that it had been Ireland's finger on the trigger of the gun that had done this to him. In seventeen years, he hadn't doubted for a second that it had been an accident. Others, however, might not think the same way.

"Well zhen," France said, clearing his throat to get the attention of the other nations. "I take it we can start now?" From there on, the meeting was full under way. "Sudetenland is all ve vant," Germany stated. "There are many Germans living there, and they have the right to live in Germany vith their ethnic brothers and sisters. The easiest vay to do so is to annex Sudetenland."

"Like you annexed Austria?" England demanded, not pleased with the young nation's demands. "You broke the rules of the Treaty of Versailles by annexing your neighbouring country. And now you demand to annex a part of Czechoslovakia as well?" At this, Austria mentioned, "I did not mind the_ Anschluss _at all, I must say. The nations around me cared about it more than I did, apparently. I do not think of it as a problem at all."

"Of course we cared more, _idiota!_" South Italy answered angrily, glaring at the Austrian. "That potato bastard can't just break the rules set in Versailles like this!" His younger twin nodded, adding, "I have nothing against Germany, but annexing you was wrong. How can _you_, of all people, not see that?" Austria corssed his arms and shrugged, stating calmly, "Ve have the same views and our people live vell together. I really do not see the problem."

"Views?" Scotland demanded, glaring at the Austrian just like South Italy had done. "Oh, ye mean the way yer treatin' jews, hm? I hardly think that can be called a 'view' at this point." The nations then started arguing about that, several fights almost broke loose, and England sighed as he took it all in. This would be a long, long day.

* * *

"So, did ye like it?" Ireland asked Northern Ireland as they got back home in the evening. The child was a disaster with a bow, but then again, he was just starting. Nonetheless, Ireland had been praising him all day long. It made him happy to be praised, and when North was happy, so was Ireland. North jumped up and down in excitement for a moment. "It was great, it was so great! Thank you, Cearul!" He then jumped one last time, hugging his brother afterwards, wrapping his arms around Ireland's waist. The older Irishman smiled and picked the boy up, hugging him back. "I'm glad y'enjoyed it." He then sat down on the couch, North on his lap, still hugging his brother. "Ye know I love ye, right, lad?" Ireland asked him eventually, and the kid nodded, hugging him again. Ireland patted him on the head and mumbled, "Good. That's good. Because yer the most important person in the entire world to me, lil' brother."

There it was again. Northern Ireland blinked as he wondered for the thousandth time how and why it sounded different when Ireland called him 'little brother' than when any of the others did. It had sounded different all his life, but only since last year did he begin to notice it. There was something in Ireland's voice that made it sound a little off, a bit weird. _Forced,_ he remembered suddenly. England had explained to him a few months ago that sometimes, when people spoke, it could sound 'forced', which meant they were saying something they actually didn't want to say deep down inside. Usually it was a lie they were telling, according to England. And England knew many, many things. _But why would it be a lie to call me little brother?_ he wondered in silence._ Or maybe this isn't 'forced lie' but 'forced don't-want-to-say'... But why?_ He sighed and pushed those questions away. It was ridiculous. Ireland was his big brother, and an amazing big brother at that. He loved him very much, and knew he was loved back.

And as they sat there like that, Ireland was completely calm inside. Holding Northern Ireland like this warmed his heart and soothed his soul every single time. No matter how annoying the child could be sometimes, no matter how much of a bother, in the end, Ireland didn't mind at all. He loved this child with all his heart, and he loved being with him. He truly cherished every second he spent with North. After all, most of the time he was on this island alone, none of his brothers here, and North would be in Great Britain as well. But even so, Northern Ireland was the world to him. He was, after all, his son.

* * *

**Well, I know it was a short first chapter, but it's just an introduction to the first, shall we say, 'arc' in this story.**

**If you haven't read Rising and are now perhaps a little confused... please just take my earlier advice.**

**Well, anyway, thank you very much for reading this and please leave a review on your way out!**


	2. Chapter 2

**First of all, Crossfire, MiaCarpenter, littlemissxflydog and Shadow fairy princess, thank you all for the follows, favourites and review!**

**Second, a bit not-so-great news... after months of smooth writing, I've begun to enter a period of writer's block. I will try to fight it though, but I don't have inspiration for the emotional angsty things like Trouble right now... So I'm going to write a piece of my new favourite ship (which I just found a few days ago and am already in love with): PruIta. They're amazing together~~**

**So hopefully I'll be back to this soon. I've begun writing the third chapter already, but it started to feel like a film script. Too much dialogue, too little descriptive sentences... So that's going to be rewritten soon.**

**So yeah... sorry for that. But it won't be too long, I promise.**

**Now that we've got that aside, here's chapter 2 of Trouble!**

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Wales and his brothers had returned to London a few days later, and he and Scotland would each go home soon as well. Ireland had just brought Northern Ireland as well, so the house was crowded enough. England had taken his oldest brother to his study to tell him about what had been discussed at the Munich Conference, and Scotland had gone out for a moment, wanting a bit of peace and quiet for a moment. North, usually the sole factor ruining said peace and quiet, had climbed onto Wales' lap and was asking him questions, also quite like usual. The conclusion the brothers had come up with during the conference wasn't 'like usual' at all, however, and all the while he was talking to little North, it lay in the back of Wales' mind, ready to come forward again and plague him like a cat stalking its prey in the shadows.

"Did you meet many nations there?" Northern Ireland asked, and Wales nodded, telling him about seeing France, who was their overseas neighbour (he was still trying to teach him where all nations were, as the child knew only the locations of the British Isles), Germany and Prussia, who shared their former Empire and were almost their neighbours, as only Belgium and the Netherlands lay between them. "And they are siblings, right?" North piped up, staring up at Wales with wide eyes. "Germany and Prussia are brothers, and Belgium and Netherlands are brother and sister!" Wales nodded and patted him on the head, praising him a bit for that. He was learning, though maybe not as fast as Wales had hoped. But then again, even after nearly two thousand years on this planet, not even he knew every nation on Earth by heart, and there were plenty he'd never met before. "And how did it go? How was it to be there? Was the building nice? Does it look like here, or do the buildings look very different there?"

Wales laughed a bit at the many questions he suddenly got, and silenced the boy before he lost track of them. "It went rather well," he told him then, and North was immediately silent again and listened intently. He was an inquisitive little nation, and his curiosity would prove to be very useful one day. He was intelligent enough as well, so he would do fine as a nation once he was old enough, that was almost certain. "There were a few fights, but between enemy nations -or former enemies, I hope- that isn't such a strange thing. Allistair has told you about the Great War, right?" Northern Ireland nodded and recited the basics he knew about it. A great war on the European mainland a few years before he'd been born, from 1914 to 1919. It had been them, France and Russia against Germany -including Prussia there- and Austria-Hungary. Others joined in later. Wales praised him again. There was nothing wrong with his knowledge of recent history at least, though anything further back than the industrial revolution was still a bit hard for him. But he was young, so he had plenty of time to learn it all.

"And about the building, well," Wales went on, laughing again. "They didn't know about my legs yet, so there were stairs." North frowned. Who would be so stupid as to place stairs in a building when Wales would have to go there, too? They- oh. But Wales had said they hadn't known yet. Then it was okay, he thought. "Your legs don't work at all, do they?" he then asked, a bit quietly as he looked down. He'd been sitting on his big brother's lap for a little while now, but most likely, he remembered suddenly... "You don't even feel me sitting here, do you?" Wales shook his head and answered that, no, he didn't. But he'd learned to live with it just fine, so he didn't mind much. "There are some things I miss," he told his little brother. "And some things I regret not being able to do -like taking you hiking into the hills at my place when you're a bit older- but it is what it is. So don't you worry about me for a second, okay?"

North nodded, but he kept pouting a just the slightest bit. He never thought about it much, as he hadn't known Wales any other way than in a wheelchair, but whenever he did think about it, he recalled all the stories his brother told him about the time before the accident happened. And then he sometimes got a bit sad, just a bit, because he'd never seen his big brother walk or even stand like almost all other people. But then Wales would tell him it would probably be weird to see him walking around again, and he would have a very hard time even doing so anyway, as his muscles had gotten weak over the years. If ever he could walk again, it would take a lot of work. And, he once added in a whisper to the young nation, this way, North would grow taller than him real quick. That was a thought the child rather liked, and he smiled once more. He then hugged his brother, smiling wide as he knew that _this _was something he did feel.

* * *

"I don't trust it," England sighed to Ireland, closing his eyes. "I don't trust it at all. We've come to an agreement with them, but I doubt it will last." Ireland nodded, taking in what his brother was telling him. Indeed, the future for Europe didn't seem bright at the moment. England went on, "I understand them, I really do. I mean, since the Great Depression, the economy has simple been... well, you know. I do not think of Germany and Prussia as the wrongdoers here, it's their leader. He's the real problem. But what can we do? So short after the previous one, we really can't afford a new war." No, they couldn't, that was something Ireland knew very well. But this entire century, there hadn't been true peace in Europe at all. "No one wants a new war, Arthur," Ireland tried to reassure his little brother. "I'm sure everyone'll be careful enough to prevent it from happening again." But England shook his head, his expression grim as he muttered, "A war is coming, Cearul. I don't know when, but it will come. Soon."

Ireland grabbed England's hand for a moment, silently looking him in the eyes, and after a moment of silence like that, the younger nation sighed and nodded. "Okay," he mumbled, understanding what his brother was trying to tell him without words. "Okay, I'll try to relax. But please understand the situation. It's getting dangerous." Ireland agreed, as it was true after all, but insisted his little brother had to take his mind off it for a while. Too much stress wasn't healthy for anyone. "And on that note," he said with a smirk. "It's probably good fer ye that Coineach's here fer a while. He's in the curious mood again, so prepare fer questions from sunrise to sunset." Something then flashed in his eyes, and he added, "Oh! An' I've been considering sending the lad to a school. Y'know, 't might be good fer him to grow up amongst his people. An' it will definitely help him develop his language skill and general knowledge. He barely speaks a word Gaelic..."

England only stared at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly. "You, Cearul," he said eventually. "Need to seriously reconsider your priorities." Ireland blinked at him in confusement, shrugged and stated, "I dun'see why. I'm worried 'bout a new war, of course, but even if it does happen, I'm not participating. Coineach has my priority here, as he should." It was silent for a moment, but then, England suddenly started laughing. Ireland only stared at him as though he'd gone crazy, wondering whether his little brother was alright or not. When he controlled himself again after a moment, England looked at his brother with shining emerald eyes. "You're amazing, Cearul," he told him with hints of laughter still in his voice. "I'm not sure which kind of amazing, but amazing nonetheless. Now let's go. Unless you want to have to spend the night here again, it's probably best if you left soon." Ireland had spend the night here together with North that day, waiting for their brothers to come home. He wasn't exactly planning to stay another one, indeed. The two nations both went to the livingroom again, where Ireland was almost immediately jumped by Northern Ireland.

"Do you have to go again, Cearul?" the child asked him, pouting, as he was lifted off the ground. He then wrapped his arms around his brother's neck and his legs around his midriff to get a better grip as to not fall, even though Ireland was holding him. The Irishman sighed and nodded, and North tried to glare at him. He couldn't quite look angry, but 'displeased' worked just fine, too. "I don't want you to go! Please, can't you stay one more night?" Something in Ireland's expression changed the moment the child said this, and though it was hardly visible, England still noticed it. He cursed inwardly, averting his gaze for a moment. He could understand how hard it was, but his brother should really try to change a few things. He'd requested Northern Ireland would be raised as their little brother, it had been his own choice not to claim the child as his own. If he wanted to be a brother, he should start making an effort of not thinking like a father anymore. But whenever Northern Ireland acted like this, it was almost as if even England could hear the tiny voice that was undoubtedly in the back of his brother's mind, practically screaming '_my son, my son, my son. Hands off, Brits, he's mine.'_ England had his doubts about North being his nephew, but Ireland definitely did not. Not anymore.

"Coineach, there isn't enough space in this house for the five of us," Ireland eventually told him, a bit disappointed himself. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go. But we'll talk again soon, okay, lad?" North nodded, though he didn't seem happy about it. Ireland smiled at him for a moment, saying softly, "Ye know I love ye, right?" The child nodded again, giving his brother another hug and then a kiss on the cheek, which Ireland returned before placing him on the ground again. "An' be nice for yer big brothers, alright? An' ye remember what we discussed this morning?"

"No waking my brothers tomorrow morning. They need their rest after traveling to Germany and back again," North recited quickly, earning a pat on the head from Ireland. "Very well, lad. Now, I'll be off. Take care, all o'ye, okay?" Wales and England said goodbye to him, too, and he then left, running into Scotland, who was just returning to England's house after his stroll, and said goodbye to him as well. Actually he could stay in London, he had no problem at all with sleeping on a couch, but he had to go home. There was some business he had to attend to the next day, as he'd received a letter while North had been staying with him. He hadn't told the child about it, nor any of his brothers, as it wasn't important to them. But to him... it was the funeral of one of the best friends he'd had over the past years. A mere human, some nations would think, but other than some, Ireland made a habit of having contact and friendships with his people. Most of the time, they were all he had since his independence.

* * *

"What I think was the worst part," England said later that evening in a conversation with his two older brothers. They were again talking about the threat of a war. "Is that Germany didn't seem to care one bit! I say both his leader and Prussia have been getting to him, he wasn't always like this." Scotland stared at him, not all pleased with this reasoning of his little brother, and demanded, "His leader, yes, but _Prussia?_" He immediately defended his friend, like he usually did when someone accused the Prussian of being evil. During the Great War, he'd seen proof that he wasn't. "There's nothing wrong with Gilbert, I've told ye before. He's... well, a bit misguided sometimes, but not a bad person." England shook his head and quietly agreed, though actually, he'd personally seen proof that Prussia _was_ cruel... and could even be considered evil. He'd been raised like that, being born for war, created by an army, but it wasn't an excuse. Silently, he glanced sidewards at his older brother. Austria had once been in the same position Wales was in now, after the War of Austrian Succession. It had been because of Prussia, and it _had not been an accident._ He'd seen it with his own two eyes. But if Scotland chose not to believe it, chose to see the good in the Prussian which was probably not even there, England couldn't change his mind.

Suddenly, Northern Ireland climbed onto Scotland's lap and stared up at him with big, curious eyes, and he asked softly, "Can I meet Prussia one day?" Almost simultaneously, Scotland and England answered the question, but both had their own different opinions on it. "What d'ye mean, 'no'?" Scotland demanded with a slight glare at his younger brother. "I keep tellin' ye, laddie, there's nothing wrong with Gilbert! We've been friends for _years, _an' if yer just worried he might do something to Coineach, let me just tell ye now: he just so happens to love children, 'specially after raising Germany by himself. He'd never so much as touch the lad." England was about to protest, but Scotland interrupted him by going on, "So if Coineach wants t'meet him, I'll take him to Germany to meet him an' Prussia! Or I'll invite them here, either one o'the two." Again, England was about to protest, this time interrupted by Wales, who, with a glare at both his brothers, said, "Would you two stop it? First of all, maybe you'd appreciate a third party in this to clear things up? It's fine for Coineach to meet other nations, but not with the current situation in Europe. No, Allistair, you're not going to Germany with him and the Germans aren't coming here until everything going on is solved. And no, Arthur, you can't seclude him forever! Just think about what that would do to his development as a nation. Second..." He sighed and calmed himself again, gesturing to Northern Ireland, who sat with his eyes closed his his hands covering his ears, trying to block out the angry voices of his brothers. The moment they both noticed this, guilt flashed in England and Scotland's eyes, and they were silent again.

"Hey, laddie," Scotland said softly to the young Irish nation after a little while, looking at him with a apologetic shimmer in his eyes. "I'm sorry for that, I just... I can get a bit cranky when people say things like these 'bout Prussia. We've been friends for twenty-four years already, and I haven't seen anythin' 'evil' about him." He then sighed and added more softly. "But I guess I get pissed off more quickly now 'cause... Well, I'm worried. Worried that he really _is_ the bad guy in this situation. I really hope not, but ye just never know. I'm angry because o'that, not ye an' also not Artie. Okay?" Slowly, Northern Ireland nodded and mumbled a soft 'okay'. In truth, he hadn't been startled at all, or thought that it had been his fault, but he'd found out quite some time ago already that little lies like these could make his brothers stop fighting. Lying was wrong, so he was constantly told, but tiny little lies like these did more right than wrong in his experience. So far, it had always worked. Suddenly the clock sounded, and North counted the times he heard it. Six, seven... eight. Darn, he knew what would come next. Scotland got up, still holding his little brother firmly so he couldn't get away, telling him, "Well, would ye look at that? It's time for ye to go to bed now, wee brother." The Scot then said a quick 'see you in a minute' to his younger brothers, taking Northern Ireland with him to the boy's room. North huffed, staring at his two other brothers over Scotland's shoulder, muttering softly, 'Goodnight..." Both Wales and England laughed, wishing him goodnight as well. Once upstairs, he was allowed to walk again, as he usually didn't try to escape anymore at this point. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then to his bedroom, undressed quickly and got into bed, Scotland sitting beside him for a moment.

"One day, Coineach," the Scot told him with a warm smile. "One day, ye'll meet every country in Europe, countries in Asia, the North-Americans, Australia and New Zealand, African Countries, South-Americans... Ye'll meet nearly every nation on this planet. Okay?" Northern Ireland nodded. He liked that idea, but it also overwhelmed him. How many countries where there? He remembered the names of some Asian countries, like Russia, who was also European for a part (he never quite understood how someone could be Asian and European, but he decided it didn't matter), and Japan, who was England's friend. Then there were China, England's former enemy in the 'Opium Wars', and Hong Kong, who was a bit like a distant cousin to him, according to his brothers. He was a colony of the British Empire, which meant he was under their rule, and so he was sort of related to North, but not by blood. He found it all a bit confusing, if he had to be honest. Australia and New Zealand _were_ his cousins, also by blood, though he'd never met them because they lived so far away. And the 'North-Americans' Scotland had mentioned were the United States of America (but everyone called him just 'America', so North had no idea why he had to learn his full name) and his twin brother Canada. He had talked to both of them over the phone once, but had never seen them in person yet.

And he would meet them all one day. He really, really liked that thought a lot. But then he yawned, and told himself to stop thinking or he wouldn't sleep at all. So, after softly telling his big brother goodnight, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, still not quite aware of what his brothers had been talking about all day. A new war? In Europe? Ridiculous... wars were history and history was not now. There wouldn't be a new war, never.

* * *

**Ah, childhood innocence... blissfully unaware of everything.**

**As I said before, I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I'll make sure it won't be something like a month or anything like that! (personally I hate long waits like that... so I'm not doing that to my readers!)**

**Thanks for reading, and please leave a review on your way out!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well... Wow. That's all I can say. So many follows, favourites and reviews for the first two chapters alone?**

**I love you guys.**

**I managed to write the third chapter at last! And, with all the shit going on in my life right now, I think I'll have _plenty _of inspiration to write angst. I'd also still like to write a PruIta thing, though, so anyone's got a prompt or something for me? A PruIta request? Something cute and fluffy, please, to get my mind off things... (can also be other pairings, but I DON'T do USUK, as I see it as psychological-incest, and that's just sick. Same for Germancest, Itacest and all such things.)**

**Anyways, thank you all so much for the faves and follows and all other things! I seriously love you guys for that!**

**I don't own Hetalia**

* * *

Northern Ireland had been wrong. There had been the Austrian _Anschluss_, already in 1935 had the Italian Empire invaded Ethiopia, Japan had invaded China in 1937. Germany had taken over the Czechoslovakian region of Sudetenland and invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. At that moment, France and the United Kingdom had declared war on Germany due to an alliance with Poland. They had to help defend him at this point. Russia, or rather, the Soviet Union also joined the war. And a year after that, the three 'evildoers', as Northern Ireland viewed them, signed a treaty and started an alliance. After the Tripartite Act, Germany, Italy and Japan were now working together, and the war had become a second Great War. The Second World War had started.

Just before this Alliance, a battle that was called the Battle of Britain also began. The German Airforce was attacking Great Britain regularly, and Northern Ireland, who'd grown with the speed of a human child because of everything that had happened and was now seven physically, sure didn't go through all this like he'd gone through the Irish Civil War from '21 to '22 -mostly asleep. He felt the destruction, heard the bombs, saw the fear in his people. His brothers were worse off than he was, though, which perhaps hurt even more. He'd been told before by them to go to Ireland for now, as Ireland was neutral in the war and wasn't attacked as a result. But he'd refused to go.

Right now, Great Britain and Northern Ireland were in an emergency meeting, though not with humans. France and Netherlands, both of whom had been attacked by the Germans recently, were with them to give advice, amongst other things. The attack on France had been most recent, and quite similar to what was happening in Great Britain now. Netherlands had been invaded in May already, and brought to surrender in mere weeks. But both nations were covered in bruises, in their eyes the same weary sparkle. "If they say they're going to bomb a city," the Dutchman said, looking down as he spoke. "They're not lying. You should see Rotterdam, _verdomme_. With them around, no one's truly safe until you do as they say." England nodded slowly, his expression grim as he took in the information. France confirmed what Netherlands had told them by adding, "Zhey are brutal. I 'ave not seen Germany or Prussia, but I'm pretty sure zhey're not trying to persuade zheir boss to go easy on any of us." He scoffed, looking away then, his eyes burning with rage. "Zhey're enjoying zhis, I'm telling you."

"I don't think they're enjoying it," Netherlands then put in as he was rubbing a sore spot on his left wrist. Northern Ireland shifted to get a look at it from where he stood between Wales and Scotland, and his heart skipped a beat in shock when he saw a bruise at least the size of both his own hands. It wasn't even blue or purple, but just _black._ He quickly looked away again, listening to what the older nation had to say. "Our people aren't the only ones suffering. _Their _people are dying, too. I'm not trying to defend them, but I'm just saying..._ ergens begrijp ik het wel._" North bit the inside of his lip, annoyed that both France and Netherlands spoke entire sentences in their own languages, and that he couldn't understand a word of it that way. Suddenly, Scotland let out a hiss of pain beside him, gripping his side for a moment before taking a few deep breaths and apologising for the sudden interruption. He was fine again now. England, however, narrowed his eyes at this and brushed his hand against his brother's shirt -the spot Scotland had been gripping in pain a few seconds ago- and looked at his fingertips afterward, which were covered in blood. Shocked, North looked at the same spot wide-eyed, but he couldn't see the bloodstain at all. Then again, he told himself, the Scot was wearing black. Of course it was hardly visible.

"Go stop that bleeding first, Allistair," England sighed, not even looking at his brother as he spoke. "Then come back... or call us if there's another attack and you need help, for whatever reason. _Please._" Scotland smiled for a moment, though his pale blue eyes were shimmering with sadness as he wordlessly patted his little brother on the shoulder and went away to do just as he was told. North stared after him for a moment, then turned back to their visitors. France sighed, muttering something under his breath which North couldn't understand, while Netherlands was trying not to look at any of the British brothers at that moment. Northern Ireland then remembered he had younger siblings, Belgium and Luxembourg, and the both of them were still on the mainland. And they had been invaded along with their older brother. He must be worried about them, the child then realised, and seeing this set of brothers probably only made it worse. North looked at England for a moment, only to see his big brother was lost in thoughts for a moment, then he looked at Wales instead, who had his face hidding in his hands for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to Netherlands, patting the older nation on his arm, and when the tall man looked down at him, he softly said, "It'll be okay. I'm sure Belgium and Luxembourg are okay." Netherlands blinked at North in silence, unsure what to say. Eventually he just went with not saying anything and just ruffling the kid's hair, but North understood the gesture. It was the Dutchman's way of saying 'thank you', he figured.

When Scotland came back a few minutes later, England took a deep breath and explained to his brothers the plan he'd been thinking about. "Allistair, can we depend on you to defend your own land and Coineach's?" The older nation nodded without hesitation, and England then stated, "Good. I will defend mine and Dylan's, then."

"Excuse me?" Wales demanded, staring at his younger brother as if he were crazy. "You're going to defend _my _land, _my _people? What about _me_? I can take care of them just fine, as I've done for ages already!" England shook his head, still not even looking at Wales as he protested, "This is different, Dylan. You're taking Coineach and going to Cearul for the time being." As soon as the Englishman had said this, Scotland's eyes widened slightly in shock, and he quickly pulled Northern Ireland to his side, and France and Netherlands exchanged a glance, one message clear in their eyes: _this was going to be __**bad**__._ As North, too, sensed this, he hugged Scotland, pressing his face to his big brother's waist, ready to hide in case Wales and England would start fighting. Which they soon did.

"How's this different, Arthur?" Wales demanded angrily, glaring at his younger brother, who rolled his eyes at this, stating, "Oh, I don't know! Perhaps the fact that this time, you're too weak to even defend _yourself_, let alone your people?" Enraged, Wales folded his hands into fists, clenching them tightly as his eyes began to resemble flamethrowers. "You think I'm _WEAK?!_ How dare you? I have defended my homeland and my people all my life -_my entire two-thousand years of life_\- and I can do so again, dammit!"

"No, you can't!" England shot back, raising his voice now, too, his emerald eyes filled with fire just like Wales' as he stared his older brother in the eyes. "Goddammit, Dylan, just use your bloody brain for _once_ in your life! _You're in a wheelchair._ If you cannot even wiggle a toe, how are you supposed to fight the Germans? You wouldn't even be able to flee if the city you're in gets bombed! What are you planning to do, take a rifle and roll into battle beside your soldiers? You cannot fight, Dylan. You cannot defend yourself like this. You're going to Ireland with Coineach and that's final." Wales gritted his teeth, taking a few deep breaths and exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm himself, but his hands were still folded into tight fists, his entire body was still tense. "Maybe that's exactly what needs to happen," he muttered under his breath, averting his gaze and turning it to the ground instead. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe I should just die..."

North couldn't believe what he was hearing, and he tightened his hold on Scotland's waist, biting his trembling lips. How could Wales even talk about dying like this? How could he? Scotland, though remaining silent, put one arm aroun North now, holding the child's shoulder reassuringly, but it didn't help the young nation feel any better at all. Tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, Northern Ireland continued listening.

"How can you even say that, Dylan...?" England asked, horrified, his voice barely above a whisper now. "You... you want to _die_?" Wales just shrugged and looked away again after briefly glancing at his younger brother. "Maybe it would be for the best," he stated flatly. "Then at least, a new Wales would be born sometime soon, one that's physically fine in every way. One that can actually defend its people when they need their nation. One that's actually _normal_, and not some weak, useless nuisance to everyone." Without hesitating for even a mere heartbeat, England had gone over to his older brother and bent over him, holding him in a firm embrace. "Oh, bugger off," he mumbled to Wales, who sat frozen with shock as his little brother hugged him like that. "Just fuck off with your stupid ideas, Dylan. You're not dying, not ever. Not if I can help it."

"In a war situation like this," Wales then replied, voice high-pitched with emotion as he spoke, hesitating to return the embrace. "I'm exactly that: a nuisance, useless, dead weight to you all. You'd all be so much better off without me!" Northern Ireland couldn't see Wales' face from his position, but he could see the older nation's fingers trembling, the tiny tremors soon going through his arms as well, and within seconds, he wrapped his arms around England, holding him tightly. From the corners of his eyes, the child saw France and Netherlands leave for a moment, as the two had obviously sensed this was a moment for the brothers alone, but he hardly registered any of it. Then, shortly after the two had left, Northern Ireland heard a muffled sob, and England whispering, "It's okay, brother... you could never be dead weight to us. Never." It took the young nation a moment to understand what was going on, but when he realised Wales was crying, his heart sank. He'd never seen any of his brothers cry, not once in the nineteen years he'd been alive. It simply broke his heart to listen to. "I just feel so _useless_," Wales choked out, his voice barely audible. "During the Great War, I hardly did a thing, and now that it's repeating itself, _I can't do a thing._ Arthur, I-I just want to defend my people. I want t-to defend you and Allistair a-and Coineach, but... but _what can I possibly do?_"

"You can go to Ireland," England whispered back, remaining strangely calm under all this. "You can take Coineach to a safe place and help develop battle strategies from there. You're not useless in any way, Dylan. You won't be... but you also won't be _here._ That's the only thing I ask. I don't want to lose my brother in this war, or any war after this." Wales didn't answer, just holding his little brother as tears kept on streaming down his cheeks. North let go of Scotland and tried to go over to him, but the Scot stopped him. "Not now, Coineach," he whispered to him. "In a moment, but not now." Northern Ireland nodded, understanding, and went back to stand beside him, holding his brother's hand as he waited for the moment he could go and comfort his other brother. And it was at that moment that he decided that, for the rest of his life, he hated the person who came up with the concept of 'war'. And with all his heart, he hated fighting. He would never fight his big brothers, or anyone. It only hurt.

* * *

Only a week later, both Wales and Northern Ireland were with their oldest brother. After many protests from the Welshman, Ireland had decided to take his little brothers to a forest for the day to get their minds off the war for a moment. So far it hadn't exactly worked for Wales yet, but North was happily bouncing through the trees and chasing squirrels. Just seeing this managed to cheer Wales up just a little, though, and he smiled as North ran up to him and told him about what great view there was up the hill before running back to it again. "Do ye need help t'get up there, lad?" Ireland asked as he walked beside the Welshman, pointing at the steep path. He'd planned not to go there, but Northern Ireland had found it and wouldn't get down until his brothers came up and saw the view, too. Wales nodded, thanking his brother, who just smiled as he went to stand behind the younger nation, helping him roll his chair up the path at the steepest bits. The moment they were nearly at the top and a breeze blew into his face, carying only the scents of forest, Wales felt at home again for just a moment. It was a shame that forests didn't have the same effect on Northern Ireland as they did on his four older siblings, who had all been born in one and immediately felt at peace again once they smelled fresh forest scents. Because the moment this happened, Wales was glad he'd agreed to come along, and for just a moment, he truly did forget the war.

North had been right, though. The view from up here was stunning. The hill wasn't particularly high, but there weren't any trees growing on its top, so the trio was now overlooking the entire forest, the tree tops seemingly endless below them. "It's beautiful here," Wales sighed, finally truly happy about being here right now as he patted the young nation on the shoulder. "This is a great spot you picked, Coineach." Ireland nodded, smiling as well as he looked over the treetops. "It's one of the few forests I have left in comparison to what I used to have," he sighed. "But nonetheless, still a sight to behold. There may not be much left on our islands, but the Irish forests, the Scottish highlands, the Welsh hills and the English coast... they're all still wonderful, aren't they?" Wales didn't answer, and instead just took in the sight, the scents and the cool breeze. After a moment, Northern Ireland sat down at the edge of the hill's peak, Ireland just behind him to keep an eye on the child so he wouldn't run off again, and Wales turned around to gaze over the other side of the forest. Turning in the loose sand was hard, though, and it took him a moment to even get away from where he'd been sitting. When he was finally at the other side of the peak, one wheel slipped as the sand under it gave way, and with a yelp, he found himself plummeting down the hillside for a few seconds. He didn't fall far, but it sure gave him a shock. And not just him.

"Dylan!" Ireland called immediately, running over to his brother's side and helping him back up. "Are ye okay?" Wales nodded as his brother pulled him back to where the sand wasn't as loose, then went back to get the wheelchair. Northern Ireland knelt down beside his big brother, asking worriedly, "Are you hurt anywhere, Dylan?" Wales shook his head, though he had to admit, the scrape along his left thigh stung pretty bad. "I'm fine, kid, don't you worry. The sand's just a bit loose here, so I slip easily. Nothing bad, it happens more often." Ireland returned with the wheelchair now, and nodded at what Wales had said. "I know. That's why I originally planned not to go here, but... Ah well, it can't be helped at this point, can it? Here, lad, gimme yer hand." Carefully, he then pulled Wales up, helping him get back into his chair. Upon sitting down again, the Welshman let out a soft hiss, and his older brother questioned, "Ye sure yer not hurt at all?"

"Well, actually," Wales then confessed, pressing his fingertips softly to the scrape on his thigh, near the knee. "This one here-..." Suddenly he trailed off, his eyes widening at he pressed his fingers to it again, applying more pressure now, and he let out another hiss. "Cearul-!" he choked out, his voice barely audible as he now softly scratched it, sending a shiver down his spine as his nail slightly deepened the many tiny cuts. It hurt pretty bad, actually. Both Irish nations stared at him as though he were crazy, and when he tried to do this again, Ireland stopped him before he even had the chance. "What are ye doing, idiot? We need to clean that, not get it infected!"

"But Cearul, it -it_ hurts_!" Wales said, amazed, his lips twisting into a wide smile and his eyes beginning to twinkle. "It actually _hurts!_ Cearul, do you know what that means?" For a moment, Ireland still shot his little brother a confused glance, but then he realised the meaning of this, too. North beat him to it, however, exclaiming, "Your legs are beginning to work again!" Wales could only nod, choking out random sounds for a moment before he could speak again. "If I can feel this, that must mean my nerves are somehow restoring themselves, however slowly. A-and if they are... and I can begin to feel again..." He looked up at Ireland now, his mossy eyes shimmering with hope. "Maybe I can also learn to _walk again_!" Immediately, Northern Ireland began cheering for him, arms up in the air before jumping onto his lap and hugging him tightly. Ireland, too, couldn't surpress a smile wider than he had thought possible during a war like this. "That's... that's amazing," he said, not even sure what to think. Was it even posible to recover from this? Well, of course it was, humans had recovered from it, even, so why not a nation? But it would take a very long time and a lot of work from this point. "But Dylan," the Irishman went on, a bit more softly and with a worried shimmer in his eyes. "Please promise me ye won't be overdoin' it with this... don't try too hard, brother." His words were lost, however, as Wales didn't even seem to be listening anymore. He was hugging North back, eyes closed, the happiest expression Ireland had ever seen from him on his face, and the older nation decided to just let him be for the moment. It was a wonderful moment, after all, the brightest light in the darkest of times, and he didn't want to ruin it even the slightest bit. Let the joy last for as long as it could... his little brother deserved it.

* * *

Everywhere around him, there was the sound of destruction and despair. The ground under his feet seemed to quake every time a bomb fell, its explosion splitting the air and striking terror in his people's hearts. He wasn't afraid at this point, every ounce of fear he might've felt during the first bombings a month ago had faded to nothingness by now. His people were terrified, though, which still affected him. But the only things he felt now were a deep-rooted hatred toward the Germans, and pain, so much pain. It hurt so much, he was way past the point of feeling ashamed that he wasn't up in a plane as well, fighting the attackers. And any human who dared question his decision would understand after one glance at his chest, which was bruised black and blue after the many air raids on London. Honestly, it was a miracle he'd made it to a shelter before the pain became too much to even be able to walk.

England was sitting in a corner of said shelter right now, knees pulled up to his aching chest as his heart felt like it was repeatedly being stabbed by a burning blade. Attacks much less dramatic than this one had left him screaming in agony before, but now he wasn't making a sound. There were people around him, his people. Women, children, few men. Most of these humans lived in the same neighbourhood he lived in, which of course meant they knew exactly who he was, and just the fact that he was in here and not out there was discouraging enough. He didn't want them to see their nation even whimpering, let alone screaming in pain. So for now, he just tried to breathe. Breathing alone was a challenge, as the pain was spreading to his lungs. As if his heart just couldn't contain all of it. But despite his efforts, he knew his people were aware of the agony he was in, and just maybe, that part hurt the most. Eventually, it was a little girl that walked up to him first, staring at him with big, brown eyes. "Sir," she said with a high-pitched voice, very carefully trying to draw his attention. "Are you okay, sir?" A woman then walked up to the both of them, gently pulling the girl away. "Leave him alone, sweetie."

"But mommy, he's in pain!" the girl protested, but her mother shook her head and pulled her daughter away from him, anyway. "I know," she said softly. "That's mr. England. I've told you about him, right? Now that the city's being attacked, of course he'd be in pain..." At that moment, the nation felt a certain, way too familiar stickiness around his heart, and he quickly brushed his fingertips against his chest. They were dripping with blood when he looked at them again after that. "...Bugger..." was all he could think or say at that moment, and actually, the little girl had the reaction he probably should've had himself. "Mommy, he's bleeding!" she told her mother, pointing at the nation. "He needs help!" The woman looked at England again, told her daughter to go to someone else and added she mustn't look, then went to the nation and knelt down in front of him. England didn't look up. He didn't even twitch. "England," the woman said softly, placing her hands on his shoulders, but he still didn't move or react. "England, please, let us help you for a moment." An elderly woman was already coming their way with bandages and some water, and finally, England gave in.

With a sigh, he slowly moved into a different position, knees away from his battered chest, and with some difficulty took off his shirt. Both women gasped in pure horror as the sight of the giant, dark bruise that seemed to be the size of his ribcage. And in the middle of it, crossing his heart, was a long, thin cut, blood oozing out of it. He remained mostly silent as the two humans tried to at least clean the cut as gently as they possibly could, then wrapped bandages around it. Only the softest whimper could occassionally make it over his lips. He felt ashamed, embarassed, but most of all he was angry, furious beyond belief. With every stab of pain in his heart, he knew another part of his capital was being destroyed and another few lives were ended prematurely. And it was that night that he made up his mind over how he was going to put an end to this war.

If necessary, he'd _swim_ to the mainland, no matter how terrified he still was of water, walk through a devestated Netherlands to Germany, and rip off their heads one by one with his bare hands. Germany's, his leader's and Prussia's. And he'd hang them on his wall as a war trophy. He would _never_ stand for the destruction of his home and his people like this. Never.

* * *

**Well, I hope it was historically correct. And of course, Wales... how could I let poor Dylan be paralysed his entire life?**

**Everytime I try to imagine England's bruise, it's... gruesome. But that was the London Blitz.**

**Well, I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but I'll try not to make it too long from now (though school is killing me with the amount of tests and homework on top of everything going on at home, so...)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hm... 3,_666_ words... this chapter must be evil somehow.**

**But it was rather easy to write, compared to earlier chapters, despite the still-present Writer's Block. And the 8 bloody tests this week.**

**Karano and Crossfire, once again, thank you so much for the reviews! And rafeind for the favourite!**

**This chapter is more Northern Ireland - Ireland centric, so no war-related angst in this one. Not much, at least.**

**Anyway, I hope you'll like it a bit.**

* * *

"Cearul," Northern Ireland began softly one morning a few months into the war. He and Wales were still with the oldest of the siblings, while England and Scotland were still defending the land. After a temporary break because of the many bombings, England had joined the battle again, too, once again in the navy. Neither of the two nations knew how to fly, so joining the Air Force was out of the question for the both of them. North had read a book on it, but hadn't understood much. But when Wales found out about it, he'd told his little brother he was far too young to fight, anyway, and this war would be over before he would be old enough. It wouldn't take a decade or more at this rate, after all, and a nation had never grown up _faster _than humans before. In fact, Northern Ireland might well be the first to grow up at human speed right now. So whatever happened, he didn't have to worry about joining the army anytime soon, so Wales and Ireland had taken the book from him for now.

Ireland only hummed in response, eyes trailing over the newspaper he was reading. "Cearul," North said again, looking away uncomfortably and fidgeting a little. He didn't want to ask this question, but it had been burning in his mind for a while now. "Why aren't you fighting, too? You're just as capable as Arthur and Allistair, right?" Ireland's eyes widened only the slightest, and he put down the newspaper, staring at the boy in silence for a moment. He then answered, "Well, I... Ye know I'm not part o'the United Kingdom, right?" North nodded, of course he knew that. Everyone knew _that_. "Well, that means I don't have to fight every battle _ye _all fight. I want my people t'stay out o'this war, we've fought enough this century." Northern Ireland nodded, but he narrowed his eyes at the answer. He found it selfish. His own people had been Ireland's until nearly two decades ago, _they_ had fought enough, too. Yet they were participating in this war. And the same went for his three other brothers and their people. "We're your little brothers," he huffed, not looking at Ireland. "You should protect us, right? Help us defend our homes and our people? Why aren't you?"

"But I am, Coineach," Ireland tried to explain. "Just not directly. If I joined the war, I would be too occupied with defendin' my own people and fightin' the enemy. Now my people and I are working 'behind the scenes': not officially, but we're helpin' ye. Understand?"

After a short moment, North nodded. Yes, he could understand that. He still didn't like it, though. Ireland didn't speak a word more of it after this, and instead turned to Wales, who was sitting close to them, staring intently at his feet, his expression one of pure concentration. The Irishman sighed and carefully told him, "Lad, just stop it. Be grateful yer gettin' yer sense back already, an' accept that motion will take a while yet." But Wales wouldn't listen. "I'm just trying to move a toe," he protested. "Just one little twitch would be enough. And it's not like it's a physically straining activity, Cearul, there's no harm in doing this for hours on end." Ireland sighed again, a little more exasperated this time, and he got up and walked over to the Welshman, grabbing his face and forcing him to look up at his older brother instead. "But it is _emotionally draining_," Ireland tried to reason. "Don't ye deny that, Dylan. Every second of failure hurts, right? Stop torturing yerself and accept things as they are: improving _graduadly_. Please?" The Welshman smiled, nodding as he promised he wouldn't overdo any of it, and then added he'd look through some files concerning the war. When Ireland offered to help, he laughed and called over his shoulder that it was all rather secret. He couldn't let any 'outsiders' so much as look at it. Then, with a glance at the silent Northern Ireland, he gestured to his older brother to follow him to the hallway for a moment.

"He isn't exactly pleased with you right now, is he?" Wales asked there, once they were sure they were out of earshot of the child. His words seemed to hit close to home in his brother, who sighed and let his shoulders hang. "Not really, no," he whispered, looking at North from the corners of his eyes. "I tried to explain to him why I'm not fighting alongside ye all -I think that's the only reason he's angry- but even though he say he understands, I don't think he does..." Wales nodded: that was just about what he thought, too. He bit the inside of his lip for a moment, thinking of a way to solve this, then said, "How about I go do my paperwork for today and you take him out into the city? Just go do something he likes, have some father-son quality time." A small smile then creeped onto Ireland's face, and his heart pounded wild at those simple words. Apart from himself, Wales was the only one to still believe North to be the Irishman's son instead of their little brother, or at least the only one to accept it. "I'll be fine by myself here," Wales went on, seeing slight doubt in his brother's eyes. "So really, just go. He's a kid: once he's having fun, he'll take his mind off things instantly." Ireland nodded, agreeing with the idea, then thanking his little brother before going to the livingroom again.

Spending the day alone with Northern Ireland would be perfect. His greatest wish was truly for North to know the truth and accept him as his father... and go with him. North was of Celtic blood like himself, and the only other one in the family to have grown up mostly without other influences was Scotland. England was the only one to truly be of mixed blood, being the son of Britannia and Rome, so Ireland sometimes doubted it was truly okay for Northern Ireland to spend so much time under his care. Wouldn't it somehow destroy the chances of him becoming truly Celtic? But then he'd tell himself there was nothing wrong with it at all: after all, North wasn't Celtic like his brothers, he was_ young._ He was supposed to fit into this age, which was becoming one of international affairs. He _had_ to grow up mixed, or he wouldn't be able to keep up with the world. Ireland himself had trouble doing so sometimes. All the choices they had made together had been right. Northern Ireland was exactly where he should be. Yet, no matter how much he kept telling himself this, Ireland couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, so very wrong, and the thoughts that plagued him..._ Northern Ireland is mine. I'll get him back one day._

With a deep breath, he went over to North and sat down beside him. The child didn't immediately react, only when Ireland put an arm around his shoulders did he look up.  
"Would ye like to get out o'the house for today, lad?" he asked, smiling at him. "To just get away from here for an afternoon an' do some'in together -whatever you like." North blinked a few times without saying anything, then gave a short nod. "Sounds fun." Ireland grinned and got off the couch again, holding out his hand to North, who grabbed it without hesitation. Together, they went outside like that, discussing what they'd do. Ireland was just paying enough attention to listen to him and give responses, but his mind was with his fingertips, which were still curled around North's little hand. He enjoyed the soft touch, loved the warmth. And he knew at that moment, that any human that would look at them, would come to only one conclusion. A twenty-nine-year-old and a seven-year-old with such striking resemblance to eachother? What else could they be but parent and child? Unconsciously, he slightly tightened his hold on the boy's hand, feeling his chest tighten along with it. He'd made a great mistake nineteen years ago... and he would set it right one day. _Please don't ever let go, my son... just don't let go of me aymore._

* * *

Northern Ireland noticed that something was off about his older brother as they were walking side by side, heading to a park. Despite it being winter, the weather was nice, so that's what North had decided to do. But there was something in Ireland's eyes every time the older nation looked at him. It was something sad, absolutely miserable and a deep longing. And Ireland was doing his best to hide it, the child could see that much, but he could still recognise the emotions in his brother's eyes. He didn't like his brother being sad about anything, but even less so did he like not knowing the reason. The only thing he could figure out, was that it had something to do with _him_. And it worried him. So when Ireland sat down on a bench and allowed North to wander off on his own for just a moment (though he wanted him to stay within sight), the child did so, but not all too happily. He sat down in the grass beside the water, staring at the reflection of the sky in it: milky and grey. It looked a little depressing, actually, and North soon got sick of looking at it. His mind wandered off to his home in Great Britain, his two big brothers fighting the war. Northern Ireland was spared most of the pain, but he still felt it sometimes. It was scary. What hurt the most was knowing that, if he felt _this_, Scotland and England were in agony. He was so worried for them, so scared. He hated the thought that most humans his age were signing up to fight in this war, while he was still too little. He was old enough, his body just didn't think so and stayed small. But then, when he'd complained about this, Ireland would tell him it took _him_ over two centuries to grow as big as North had done in less than two decades. The child couldn't really believe that. He knew his big brothers were all pretty old, with England and Wales at nearly two-thousand and Scotland and Ireland well past that already. Yet, they were all still young, in their early- to mid-twenties. Well, Ireland was perhaps thirty at most. So they had to have grown up slowly. But still, North couldn't really believe it. If only _he'd grow up faster_... he could help them.

Biting his lip, which was beginning to tremble violently, he got to his feet and ran back to Ireland. He practically jumped onto his lap, clinging to him and hiding his face against his big brother's chest. Immediately, Ireland put his arms around him, asking with a worried voice, "Coineach? What's wrong, lad?" North gritted his teeth, fighting back tears with all his might. He wouldn't cry. He would be strong, so strong, just like his big brothers. "It's not fair!" he mumbled. "Why are they at war?" Ireland's muscles got a little less tense at that, and he sighed. "Because what ye say's true: the world's just not fair like that, lad. I won't tell ye fairytales of peace and miracles, because it's not how the world works. _This is_, an' it is a cruel world. But it's also a beautiful world, lad. One day the sun will shine again. Just like the seasons, there are colder periods when the sun won't shine, but ye'll always know that one day, the warmth and light will return."

"Why aren't you helping?"

He then felt the older nation's fingers twitch on his back. It was a question Ireland obviously didn't like, but it was one that North wanted an answer to. "Coineach, I _am._ But my people an' I fought too hard for our freedom... I'm not forcing them into another battle now." Northern Ireland held his his breath for a moment, then whispered, "_My _people, too? _They were yours, right?_" For about a minute, Ireland didn't answer, but eventually he just gave a short nod. Of course Northern Ireland had heard the entire tale a thousand times, but this time, it triggered something in him._ That longing and sadness in him... _he suddenly realised, staring up at his brother with a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. _Does he want his people back?_ "Do you want me to be gone so they're yours again?" he asked, already convinced of this, as he failed to bite back the tears any longer. Ireland's eyes widened in pure shock at this, and he quickly said, "What? How can ye-? No! _No, Coineach_, never!" He put his arms around the child again, holding him tighter but gentle. "I'm actually not so fond of Northern Ireland," he said. "Or the Northern Irish. One of 'em once tried to kill me... But _you_, Coieach, ye are the things I love most on this entire planet. Ye are the best thing to have happened in my life, an' I'd never trade ye for _anythin'_. I love ye more than anythin', Coineach." North looked at him with narrowed eyes, not understanding any of it. His brother was talking nonsense. _He _was Northern Ireland, and Ireland had just said he didn't like him, then said he loved him? That's crazy, that's impossible. He tried to wriggle out of Ireland's embrace, but the older nation didn't seem willing to let go just yet. So when he could, North gave him a hard punch in the stomach without even thinking, and ran off when Ireland let go of him in pain. The older nation called after him, but North didn't even look back. He just didn't understand any of it anymore.

As he was running, he was aware of Ireland going after him. He didn't know _why _he was running, not exactly, but he sure didn't want to be with his big brother now. Or anyone, for that matter. First, he had to get his thoughts straight again, back into a state he _could_ understand. With every step he felt guilty, however, with every time Ireland called him he got angry with himself. He was running from his brother without a good reason, he'd _hurt _him without any reason at all. It was the first time he'd done anything like this, and he felt really bad. Yet, his feet didn't stop moving and the tears didn't stop welling up. When he thought he was out of sight for the older Irishman, he quickly ran to his right, hoping Ireland wouldn't know where he'd gone.

And indeed, he had no idea. He didn't know what had gotten into the boy all of a sudden, but just seeing him this angry, scared and confused hurt. The punch in his stomach had been hard, but he had hardly felt any of it, as the pain that wasn't physical was just that much stronger. He had find him now, because if _he_ was hurt, then North must be even worse. He had to find him, find out what was wrong, comfort him then take him home. Preferably but not necessarily in that order. "Coineach!" he called again, though he knew by now that he wouldn't get an answer. When he reached crossroads, he halted. At this point, he could only hope Northern Ireland hadn't gone too far yet, because then, searching for him would be near hopeless. But when he looked to his right, he saw the child standing beside a woman, who was talking to him. He didn't seem willing to answer, but didn't try to leave, either. Utterly relieved, Ireland ran over to him and called him again, hoping North wouldn't run away again now. But he only looked at Ireland wide-eyed, quickly glanced at the woman and back again. "See?" the woman said to him when Ireland was just within earshot. "Isn't that your papa?" North quickly shook his head and mumbled 'brother', which surprised the woman a bit. There was at least twenty years between the two nations, after all, so it seemed a bit weird to human eyes for them to be brothers.

Ireland actually wanted to grab the child and hold him in his arms the moment he'd reached him, but when Northern Ireland flinched, he simply knelt down instead and held out one hand to him instead. "Coineach, please," he said softly. "Ye can always tell me what's wrong, y'know... just talk to me." he then glanced up at the woman and thanked her. She just smiled and asked if there was anything she could do to help, but Ireland shook his head. everything was under control again now. She then left the two again, and only then did North look at the older nation again, though he still didn't speak. "Coineach, _please_," Ireland said again. "I'm beggin' ye, lad, just tell me what's wrong. How can I help if I don't know the problem?" Instead of talking, Northern Ireland just started crying, practically jumping Ireland and swinging his arms around the Irishman's neck, who held him tightly. "It's okay, lad. Really, it's okay," he whispered to the young nation, gently stroking his hairs as he held him. It wasn't until after five minutes or more that North controlled his breathing just enough to speak.

"I hate this!" he choked out. "I want this war to be over! I want to go to London, I want to go _home again!_" Though the words came as a dagger to Ireland's heart, he put every ounce of his own emotions aside now. "The war will be over," he tried to soothe him. "Not today, not tomorrow, but it won't last forever. England and Scotland will be fine, the land as well as our brothers, they've gone through so many wars before. They know how to take care of 'emselves. An' then ye'll go back to London, to Edinburgh an' Cardiff an' Belfast... everywhere again. An' by then, Dylan'll be able to walk again, for sure, an' the world will be that much brighter."

"I-I don't eve-even _want _Dylan to walk!" North protested with a trembling voice. "And I don't _want _t-the war to be over _someday,_ but _today_! I want everything to be like it used to be!" Ireland took a deep breath before answering this, mostly because he had to fight back any response that said North was being selfish for that. If anything, _that_ was exactly what would make the situation even worse. "I know change is hard," he said eventually. "An' the world can be cruel... an' everything can hurt. But change is natural, Coineach. Everything changes someday. And there is light at the end of every tunnel, lad. But until we've reached that light, I need ye to be strong, okay? Yer so strong already... An' I need ye to stay strong. Can ye do that for me, please?" Slowly, the child nodded, and Ireland picked him up, holding him gently as he made his way back home. "Thank ye, lad," he said softly. "I love ye, okay? No matter what." And just then, everything seemed to be alright to North.

* * *

Late that evening, however, he saw that is wasn't. Almost an hour after he'd gone to bed, Northern Ireland quietly went downstairs again. He couldn't sleep. When he'd almost walked into the livingroom, he saw Ireland and Wales sitting on the couch together, Wales' wheelchair set aside in a corner of the room for the time being. At first glance, nothing about it was off, but after a mere second, North noticed all sorts of things. Ireland, who had his head on his younger brother's shoulder, looked absolutely miserable. Wales didn't seem too happy, either, though he was in what North called 'comforting-mode'. "He said he wanted to go _home,_" Ireland sighed, and Northern Ireland could only just hear him from where he stood, now hiding there. "Home being...?" Wales inquired, not looking at his older brother, who sighed again. North didn't hear the answer, though he could read lips well enough to know his oldest brother was saying 'London.' This seemed to surprise Wales a bit, who then said, more to himself than anyone else, "Not even Belfast...? Wow. That's not even healthy." Wasn't it? Northern Ireland wasn't even sure about it.

"An' then, that human... she asked him, and I quote, 'isn't that your papa?'," Ireland went on, speaking so softly North could hardly hear him. He then closed his eyes and let his shoulders hang. "Is it wrong of me to wish he'd have said _'yes'_?" Northern Ireland's eyes widened in shock. Why would Ireland want _that?_ Because it was easier to explain to humans than the truth? No, that couldn't be it... Wales didn't react for a moment, but then shook his head. "Not really. Not in my book, at least. So long as you don't say a word of it to him..." Ireland nodded slowly, but said, "I know, but... Sometimes, Dylan, it's just _so hard_. Sometimes I wonder if this was really the right choice." What were they talking about? Northern Ireland didn't understand a word of it. But he didn't want to hear a word more of it now, as it only rasied questions in his mind he didn't dare say out loud. So as quietly as he could, he went back upstairs and got into his bed again, closing his eyes. He tried so hard, but Ireland's words were stuck in his mind. It didn't make sense... He didn't know why Ireland would have said that.

The only thing he knew for sure that night, was that he didn't sleep a wink.

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**Thank you for reading, and please leave a review on your way out!**

**Oh, and as Crossfire pointed out in a review... I know it seems I have made a final decision on wheter North is brother or son, but... Really, I'm not _definitely_ going either way in this fic. Everyone has their own opinions on it, both within the story and outside it, and since there isn't any proof for either theory, nothing is definite. But Ireland and Wales really _do_ believe North couldn't possibly be their little brother, so, since this chapter was mostly their perspective on the matter...**

**Anyway, I'm (mostly) leaving it up to the readers to decide for themselves.**

**(And the next chapter might take a little longer again... just sayin')**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, I finally got another chapter ready!**

**Crossfire and Karano, thanks for the lovely reviews! And Kawaz, thank you for the follow! So how did your olympiad go, Karano? Got any results already? (just curious)**

**This chapter was once again proof that my writing isn't completely back yet... as I didn't want to rewrite the whole thing, I've just gone over it twice and corrected some things, but... It might still seem rushed here and there, despite the length. Sorry for that.**

**Well, I don't really have anything else to say, so here you go: chapter 5 of Trouble.**

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It wasn't until spring 1941 that Northern Ireland saw his big brothers again. He would've liked to go to London again, but England had insisted they stay away from there. He didn't want them to see the chaos, despair and destruction. And truly, there was no place left for them to meet there. England's own house in London had been blown to smithereens along with so many others. So for now, when he wasn't away with the navy like he had been over the past few months, he lived in his house up north, near the border with Scotland. That was also where the brothers were meeting now. It was a bit small for the entire family to stay, though. While England's house in London had been big enough to accomodate four of them (he'd had it for well over a century before North had been born), the one here was truly one he used to get away from everything, like Ireland with his place in Ballinhassig and Wales with his cottage up in the hills. Only Scotland hadn't gotten himself a get-away like that, with a house in two cities -the capital and another major one.

Northern Ireland didn't mind it being crowded one bit. There were two beds in the house, so someone could stay here with him for the few days he was home. And of course, that someone would be Northern Ireland, he'd make sure of that. However, just seeing England and Scotland again wasn't the only thing North was excited about. This would be the second time he'd meet another nation not from his direct family. Canada was here, which was probably the only reason England was allowed to leave the war for a week, to discuss tactics with him.

"Arthur!" North called the moment he saw his big brother again, running over to him with a wide smile and jumping into the arms the Englishman had spread welcomingly, ready to hug his little brother again. "I missed you so much, Arthur!" The young nation said, snuggling against the Englishman's shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around him. "I missed you too, kid," England said, hugging the child a moment longer before placing him back onto the ground. Northern Ireland's smile seemed to grow even bigger at that, then he ran over to Scotland and repeated the process, allowing England to greet his two older brothers as well. "Good to see you both again," he said flatly, and it was obvious from his voice then that he was utterly exhausted, something he masked when talking to North. "It's unbelievable, isn't it? The worst battle in history... repeating itself." He then sighed and shook his head, turning to Wales, his eyes just a little bit brighter again. "And? Can you feel everything again?" Of course he'd heard the good news, and he was relieved that at least something was going right in this dark time.

Wales shook his head, though he was smiling wide, and explained, "It still feels like there's, I don't know, a large pillow or something wrapped around my legs. I do feel things, but it's... a bit dull, muffled. But it's improving." England nodded with a tiny smile, looking over his shoulder at Northern Ireland, who had just let go of Scotland and was now cautiously walking over to Canada, a little bit nervous. But when the Canadian smiled at him and said a soft greeting, the child seemed a bit more reassured and stood in front of the teen, looking up at him.

"You're Canada, right?" he asked, his pale green eyes wide. Canada gave a short nod and North said nervously, "N-nice to meet you, then. I'm Northern Ireland... Coineach." The older nation then knelt down in front of him so their eyes were at the same level, also introducing himself. "I'm Matthew. Though you'll hear France calling me Mathieu, so don't be too confused by that. I'm a bilingual nation, you see."

"So am I!" North piped up, eyes twinkling with joy. "Or, well, I'm supposed to be. But Gaelic is _hard._" Canada laughed for a moment, though his voice sounded a bit flat, and North tilted his head, inspecting the older nation carefully. "You look different than what I imagined," he mused eventually. "I though your hair would be shorter... and didn't think you had glasses..." The Canadian then ruffled the kid's hair a bit, answering, "Well, you're not all what I imagined you to be, either! Since you're born a member to the UK, I thought you'd look more like Arthur and less, well, _identical_ to Cearul. But then again, you're still Irish territory even if you're United Kingdom, so that's not surprising." With a last, warm smile, he added, "You do have the same green eyes, though. Just a tad lighter, which is exactly as I envisioned." Having said that, he got to his feet again and walked over to England, said a quick greeting to the others and already started discussing things. England quickly silenced him again, though. "Not yet, Matthew," he said, sighing. "Please. It's already getting late, we should just have dinner and-" With a slight grimace, he looked at the five other nations. There were six of them, and -couch included- only three places to sleep. "Well, I suppose..." he mumbled eventually, more to himself than anyone else as he was thinking of what to do now. "I suppose I have two spare matrasses down in the cellar. Plenty of blankets, sheets and such as well... For one night we can make it like that, right? And North can sleep with someone else."

"Sure, no problem," Ireland agreed, nodding once. Then, with a smirk, he added, "So long as _you_ take an actual bed, I'm fine with it. Lad, you look as if you could fall asleep any moment now, you need a proper bed to collapse on." England only smiled, but remained silent. Canada then offered to make a bunch of pancakes for dinner ("they're done quickly, so we can eat in time!") and Ireland, Scotland and North were busy getting the livingroom ready to serve as a bedroom for the night. It left England and Wales alone for a moment with nothing to do, and quietly, Wales grabbed his little brother's hand, rolling over to another room in silence, pulling England along with him. He, too, said nothing and silently let himself be pulled along by his brother. Once inside that room, Wales turned around, closed the door then faced England, looking up at him. He really didn't look good: skin pale as a corpse, dark lines under his eyes as though it were make-up. His emerald eyes were dull, the usual light nowhere to be found. Only a weary, tired look in them remained, seemingly piercing Wales' heart like a dagger. Biting the inside of his lip for a second, he held out both arms to his little brother, staring him in the eyes. Only when England didn't react to it, he insisted, "Come on, Artie. Just come here." Slowly, a bit absent-mindedly (which worried Wales even more, as this was a clear sign he was truly _exhausted_), England leaned forward and put his arms around his older brother. His body was tense, Wales noticed immediately, and he then realised that's what his little brother had been like for months now: constantly tense, constantly stressing and exhausted and weary. He surpressed a sigh and mumbled softly, "Oh, just sit down already, moron, so I can give you a proper hug. You obviously need one right now, and this awkward position isn't helping." England laughed soflty, letting go again. It was indeed not the best position, having to lean over his brother's legs or holding him sideways, but it had been the only real possibility they'd had for two decades. He looked down at Wales with an expression that clearly asked 'really now?', but Wales just kept staring at him until he gave in. With an amused sigh, he carefully sat down on Wales' lap (only able to wonder what the hell he was doing), immediately being pulled back into a tight embrace. When the initial awkwardness faded, he had to admit, it was quite comfortable. Still, it was also -and mostly- ridiculous. "Dylan," he sighed, closing his eyes. "At the moment, I'm a high-ranking officer in the navy. This is just crazy."

"No, Arthur, right now," Wales answered calmly, not letting go. "Right now you're just my little brother. My little brother who's gone through Hell and back again the past few months, and is in dire need of some warmth and comfort and rest, even if he won't admit it." With a tiny smile playing at his lips, England turned around and put his arms around Wales, fully returning the embrace, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. He wouldn't admit it, not with words, but this was indeed exactly what he needed right now.

* * *

"I really liked your pancakes," North said to Canada as he was changing into his pajamas in the livingroom. The Canadian smiled and thanked him quietly, already sitting on one of the spare matrasses on the ground. They had decided the ones that deserved a bed most were England and Scotland, Canada and Ireland would sleep on the ground and Wales would take the couch. He had to be able to get into his wheelchair again the next morning, after all, and he didn't appreciate needing help with that, so sleeping on the floor was out of the question for him. North then said goodnight to Canada and his brothers, and went upstairs. He could choose with whom he wanted to sleep for tonight, and he'd made his decision the moment he heard he could pick: of course it would be England. When he got to his bedroom, he spotted the Englishman sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning up a shirt to sleep in. When he saw North enter the room in the corners of his eyes, he worked just a little bit faster, but the child still spotted a long scar on his chest and traces of bruises around it. "Arthur?" was all he could get over his lips, staring at his brother with worry in his pale eyes. The older nation simply smiled a bit, looking at his little brother with a calm expression. "Those are just old wounds, Coineach," he tried to reassure him casually. "Nothing to worry about." Northern Ireland nodded silently and sat down beside England when the older nation invited him to do so, but he remained worried. 'Nothing to worry about' wasn't exactly the right description, the way he saw it. But if that's what England said, he believed it.

"Well, have you had any fun during your time with Cearul?" England asked when he and North lay under the covers. The young nation nodded, and told about the beautiful forest they went to -twice, even. Aside from that, he'd spent the months reading some good books, learning more Gaelic, helping his brothers with governmental work and all such things. He learned a lot, but aside from several special occassions, he never truly had fun. He worried too much about his two other big brothers, and if he didn't worry, he simply missed them. England sighed and ruffled his hair affectionately. "I missed you too, kid. But you don't have to worry about me and Allistair: we've gone through this many times before. Okay? We'll be fine." Northern Ireland nodded, then wriggled closer to his brother, snuggling up to him. Well-meant as the motion was, England couldn't surpress a soft hiss of pain when his little brother brushed against the bruises. They were old, yes, but so long as the destruction in London wasn't fixed, he doubted it would truly heal, hence them having stayed there for months already. North flinched away from him immediately, and in the darkness, two pale emerald eyes stared up at England again, slightly teary. _Oh, please,_ the nation thought, biting his lip. _Don't you go crying now... It wasn't your fault._ "Does that hurt a lot, Arthur?" the child whispered and with a sigh, England nodded, deciding it would be pointless to lie now. Immediately, Northern Ireland got out of the bed again, placing his small hand on England's shoulder for a moment. "I'll go to Allistair, then. You need to sleep well." He whispered, leaning over to his older brother, who was staring at him in silent surprise, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Arthur."

England wished him goodnight as well when the kid left his bedroom quietly and went over to the door to the guestroom. But before even opening it, he remembered one little aspect of Scotland's sleeping habits that might be hazardous to his own sleep if he slept in the same room as the Scot: his snoring. With a grimace, he recalled several other times he'd heard him do so. North was a light sleeper, and Scotland was just loud enough to wake him. So he went back to the livingroom, where Wales, Ireland and Canada were. The couch wasn't an option, as Wales had to be able to move freely in the morning -or perhaps at night as well. With a little brother beside him, it wasn't exactly the easiest task to get off a couch if he couldn't move his legs. And Canada was still too much of a stranger to the child. So Ireland it would be, then. Quietly, he moved the sheets aside and got under them. Neither of the three nations was already asleep, obviously, so he got three stares as he did this. "What's wrong, Coineach?" Ireland asked softly, though he seemed very happy North was joining him instead of England. "I thought you wanted to sleep next to Arthur?"

The young nation, who'd become quite tired over the past few minutes, nodded drowsily. "But he's hurt," he mumbled with a yawn. "And I don't want to hurt him further... And Al snores." Canada laughed softly and then patted the child on his back. "Well, you're welcome to sleep between us. Goodnight, kiddo."_ 'Kiddo'_, Northern Ireland thought with a frown. _Strange word... must be American or something..._ With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes, drifting off nearly immediately. He hadn't even realised he'd been this tired. When he was nearly asleep, he vaguely heard Canada say, "He's a cute kid, isn't he?" From both Wales and Ireland, there was an agreeing hum. But then Ireland answered, "Just wait until the morning, lad..." to which Wales added an annoyed grunt, clearly remembering the many mornings he too had been woken by the kid even before sunrise. Then he slowly fell alseep, completely at ease. Somehow, despite everything that had happened over the past months, snuggling up to Ireland and falling asleep in his big brother's arms was still one of the best things in the entire world.

* * *

The next morning, England went to his livingroom as quietly as he could. He wasn't sure if anyone was awake yet -Scotland sure wasn't- but most likely, Northern Ireland had taken care of that... Then again, he hadn't woken Scotland yet, so maybe he'd decided not to wake anyone this morning. However, the moment England walked into the room, he saw something he hadn't expected in the least: Northern Ireland was still fast asleep... next to Ireland. After his initial shock about the child finally sleeping in had faded, only a deep, vague sense of anger remained. It wasn't that he thought Ireland's constant presence was bad for him, not at all... but still, England prefered to keep the two apart as much as possible. The older Irishman could sometimes be too affectionate, to the point that it could hardly be described as brotherly anymore. Up to this point, whenever North questioned this, England had always been able to explain to him that Ireland once had a parent-role to Scotland and Wales as well, shortly after their mother died, and he had raised North in his first year. Some bits and pieces of that role still remained, so he could sometimes act a bit fatherly. However, if one day Ireland would decide to tell North that he was his father -which England believed to be false, anyway- it would be nothing short of a disaster.

With a sigh, England went over to the curtains and opened them, allowing the dim light of the morning sun fall into the room, which slowly woke the four other nations. With a yawn, Canada looked up, blinking in the sudden light, then looking up at the older nation drowsily. "_Oh, bonjour, Arthur..._" England only smiled, surpressing a grimace at hearing his most hated language first thing in the morning. The teen couldn't help it, after all: being bilingual, one could never know for sure with what language they'd wake up. Only a few seconds after that, there was a soft, "Bloody hell, Coineach, let me sleep for _one morning._" A moment later, Ireland realised the child was still asleep next to him, and instead, it had been England. Grumbling a bit, he greeted his younger brother, then gave Wales a quick, gentle poke in the side. "Meeting's startin' in an hour or so... get up."

"Ha! Do you honestly think I'm so generous as to give you an entire hour?" England joked with a smirk. "Fourty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast and getting ready in any other way. I'll go wake Allistair now..."

In the end, the entire 'meeting' lasted two hours and a bit, and was used mostly to get everyone up to date on the developments in the war. Tomorrow, when Ireland would've left along with North again, they'd continue and try to develop new strategies. At the end of it, England had pulled Ireland along into the backyard, adding specifically that he needed a moment alone with his brother to discuss certain things and the others should not try to folow them. Ireland himself didn't seem to get it, not immediately, but when England stood with his back turned to him, arms crossed over his chest, realisation slowly began to seep in. "You must've been very pleased that he came to you and not Al, hm?" the Englishman asked eventually, voice soft but with a nasty edge to it. Before Ireland had a chance to answer, his little brother went on, "If you ever try to... change his truth... Cearul, I swear, I'll rip out your tongue and hang it on my wall as a war trophy. That's something you simply cannot do. So please, surpress any... 'fatherly instincts' from now on." Ireland only narrowed his eyes and went to stand in front of England, who now had no excuses to turn away from him again and was forced to look him in the eyes. "And what, Artie," Ireland demanded slowly, his eyes flashing with anger. "What is so wrong about that? If I never tell him anything-"

"It's confusing for him!" England interrupted his older brother, raising his voice a bit, but still careful enough to not let anyone inside the house hear a word. "You don't know how many times he's come to me, asking 'why Cearul does this' and 'why Cearul says that'. He doesn't understand!"

Ireland, who had his hands folded into fists by now, retorted, "An' I think _you_ don't understand what it's like for _me!_ Every day, _every single day_, having him so close yet so far away _hurts._ And every day the pain seems to only increase..." England huffed, rolling his eyes. As if he didn't know that! But it was ridiculous, all of it, and Ireland should man up and be willing to sacrifice. If he truly loved his supposed 'son', he wouldn't say a word and act like a brother instead. When England mentioned this, however, it was like something exploded inside of his oldest brother, and Ireland almost started yelling. "An' isn't that exactly what I've been doing for the past two decades? Okay, a few minor slip-ups, but try to understand! It's like... like... Like the American Revolution was to ye!" England's eyes widened a bit, not only because of the mention of said revolution, but mostly because he just really didn't see the connection. "Ye raised America, lad," Ireland tried to explain. "He was like yer kid to ye, right? An' when he left... he would rather be alone than with ye. An' that hurt, right? Coineach would rather be... rather be in the UK than with me, an' that _hurts_ every day. Even now, after months of having him with me, just seeing him so homesick is nothing short of torture. I just wish he could feel at home with _me_, too. After all, to him, I'm no less his brother than ye are, aren't I? Then why does he favour the three o'ye so much?"

England sighed, feeling a tiny twinge of pity in his heart. It's not like he wanted to hurt his older brother, but he wanted him to hurt his little brother even less. Northern Ireland was a child, Ireland wasn't. Out of the two of them, the most obvious one to have to make sacrifices was the adult. When Ireland let out a soft sigh, too, and muttered under his breath that sometimes, he wished he could just- England didn't let him speak further. "Just _what_, Cearul?" he demanded angrily, raising his voice as much as Ireland had just now. "Tell him your so-called 'truth'? Do you have any inkling how downright _cruel_ that would be? He's not your son, he's our little brother! That's _his_ truth, that's all he knows! And doing what _you_ want, Cearul, would destroy his entire world and everything he knows!" He gave Ireland a rough poke in the chest, one that was so hard, his own two fingertips actually hurt. "He isn't yours, brother, and he never will be. You had your chance and didn't take it. You can suffer for eternity for all I care, you're _not_ hurting _my little brother_, got it?" Without waiting for a reply, he walked past Ireland and to the door, but before opening it, he looked over his shoulder and shot the older nation one last glare. "You can take him with you again this afternoon, but remember this: on a national scale, he's under _my _authority. I can just as easily take him away from you and give him to the government to be raised by them for the time being. The royal family, perhaps. And trust me, one more slip-up, _and I will do it._"

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**So eh... yeah... Artie and Cearul aren't exactly on the same line about Coineach...**

**Anyway, I know the many time-skips can be annoying, but there's up to _1998_ for me to write about. That's _sixty bloody years_ to fit into this story! And I love doing it, but no way am I making this a hundred chapters or longer! XD**

**So, as I still have nothing else to add... have a nice day, and thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I can honestly say, this was the first chapter I didn't have to rewrite. Not even a bit. The only one that didn't come out like a film-script first! (Ah, bless the fact that darned Writer's Block is finally gone~)**

**Crossfire, thanks for the lovely review. Each and every review is always lovely, after all!**

**Well, I hope you'll enjoy chapter 6 of Trouble!**

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1941 was a terrible year for the Allies. The attacks on Britain continued for a long time, the Germans invaded the Soviet Union, and to top it all off, Japan attacked the United States of America, forcing the Americans to join the war. Very few nations in the world had nothing to do with this war anymore: either they participated in it directly, or they were pulled into it through invasions, earlier colonisation by participants or other such connections. It was truly a World War, a great battle like none before. The Brits hoped that America's participation, like in the previous World War, would prove to be the turning point and mean a quick Allied victory, but it didn't. The Germans continued their invasion of the Soviet Union, America was too preoccupied with fighting Japan to truly fight anywhere else, and the Italian Empire had made it's way into North Africa and was invading several nations there.

England and Scotland were both at the front in North Africa by now, in Egypt. It was late November 1941, and by then, they hadn't won a single battle yet, which was discouraging to say the least. Things seemed to be going well until the Germans sent troops to assist the Italians earlier that year. They had been fighting another battle over the past few days, something they called Operation Crusader and was meant to relieve the Siege of Torbuk and drive back the Axis. Right now, however, they were in the tent they shared and were supposed to rest and regain some strenght, as they would join the battle again the next day. Neither of the brothers managed to even close his eyes, however, and they were simply discussing things. No matter how hard they tried to speak of a subject other than war, they couldn't, and the conversation would somehow always come back to the situation at hand, previous wars and fears for the future.

"I can hardly aim well in this place," Scotland sighed as he was once again carefully wiping his glasses, which were pretty damaged by now -and this had been his second spare pair already. "The sand damages the glass... I mean, laddie, just look at 'em! Completely covered in scratches an' what not..." With a scowl, he put them aside, glaring at the ground under his feet -sand, of course. "Great idea they had, sendin' me off here an' not somewhere... less sandy... But then again, at least yer not alone now, aye?" England nodded slowly. He was still only halfway through processing the Scot's words. Never before had he been this tired, and he could only wonder how anyone could expect him to lead this operation while he was in this state. Well, he wasn't the only one leading it, three of his people were taking care of that role, too. But a nation was always the leader of his troops, no exceptions. Then, when he finally really took in Scotland's last words, he nodded again. "And I'm glad I'm not," he mumbled, shivering a bit. Temperatures in this area could drop dramatically at night, and it was winter at that. The desert wasn't exactly a place where one could find snow, but it sure did get cold when the sun went down. Scotland seemed cold, too, so he offered to make a fire just outside the tent so they could sit around it. England shook his head, however, and said he prefered staying inside the tent. He wouldn't say it out loud, but this tent was the one place where he didn't have to see soldiers or weapons or wounded or dead. Here, he could pretend there wasn't a war going on at all, and he was just... camping in the Scottish highlands with his brother or something. Anything to not think about the horrible war.

"Bein' alone is the worst during times like these, ain't it?" Scotland sighed eventually, averting his gaze again. Almost the moment he said this, memories of the First World War came to mind, memories of the year he spent alone at the front in France. England was in the navy back then, Wales tasked with defending Great Britain and Ireland, who had still been a member of the UK and thus participated in the war, was defending his own land -and also going behind his brothers' backs and planning a rising, they found out later in 1916. Scotland had been in France from early August '14 to August '15, when he'd been caught up in an attack on his troops which involved poisonous gas. He'd been the only survivor, and just barely made it himself. Though his recovery had been quick enough, he'd breathed at least twice the amount of gas that could kill a human, had stumbled into barbed wire as he fled and was thus left with cuts all over his body and was then shot by two German soldiers. The last part, he now understood, had been an act of mercy. The soldiers hadn't known who he was, hadn't known he was immortal, and were merely trying to spare him the torture of dying a slow death. But the real torture had come after the attack, when he woke up again nearly a week later in a hospital in London... and opened his eyes to emptiness. The poison gas had damaged his eyes and left him blind. After more than a year of living in a world of unrelenting darkness, he finally started to distinguish light from dark again, but even from that moment on it had taken six months until he could actually _see_ again. His sight, however, had never become what it used to be anymore, and now, he was feeling the effects of that.

England had his own terrible memories of loneliness, too, though the worst dated far back. Much further than this century or even the two before it. He'd been alone from the moment he'd been born, held only by two people in his first two years of life. Directly after he'd been born, he'd been in the arms of his oldest brother, who had been no older than eleven at the time, and his mother's, who then died a few seconds later. Ireland, in sheer panic and grief, had left his newborn brother in the woods and had taken his two little brothers, Scotland of six (physically at least) and Wales of physically and biologically one, away to another forest far away from the one they had always lived in. _That_ was the most painful memory England had, without a doubt. He'd never gone through something like Scotland or Wales, having to live with disabilities for a longer period of time, but he'd struggled with depression and, if he had to be honest, also severe paranoia towards every other nation on the planet from the day he was born. No one had ever cared about him, and he never cared about anyone. That had been his life, that had been the reason for so many of the wars he'd fought, and it was the most horrible thing he knew.

Ireland, too, has had a hard time this century. First there was the inner turmoil about whether he'd stay with his brothers or not (caused by the hostility between Ulster and the rest of Ireland), then having to betray his family during the rising, the First World War and everything going on at the same time. After having hurt his brothers, he'd felt so guilty he plunged right into a depression. For six months he'd stayed away from his little brothers, not even giving them a single sign of life during that time. And all that time he'd been slowly destroying himself. He barely ate, became even more of an alcoholic than he already was and started cutting himself on an almost daily basis. For half a year, the oldest of the four siblings had been suicidal out of sheer guilt.

For everyone in the family, this entire century so far had been hell, and they all simply wished for the century to be over already. "But we can't just sleep through it all, can we?" England asked softly, chuckling, though there was no joy in his voice at all. "We still have 58 years and a bit to go..." Scotland sighed, nodding, his face twisted in a slight grimace. "Indeed... but damn the twentieth century. Just give me the twenty-first already. I'm sick of this constant war."

"Though there's no telling if there will ever be peace again, of course..."

* * *

Northern Ireland was almost out of breath already, but he continued his workout with the same determination. He was far too young to join battle still, but when Wales mentioned the four older siblings had all fought wars at this physical age, he'd become determined to at least learn to fight. Neither Wales or Ireland was pleased with his decision at first, but by now, the Welshman was helping him. Wales was sitting in front of North, holding up a hand for a split second, at which North would flash out his fist and try to hit it in time and so on. And sometimes, Wales would try to punch the child (though carefully, of course) which Northern Ireland would then have to block. "Come on now, Coineach!" he said, smiling at his little brother's efforts. He was really trying hard, and Wales admired that. "Don't give up yet -keep it up for two more minutes and we're done for now!" North, panting, gave a quick nod, swiftly blocking a punch from his big brother and retaliating. He'd been training like this for three weeks already, and he was getting better with the day. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Ireland enter the room and halting in the doorway, looking at his two younger brothers for a moment then leaving again. By the time he came back, North and Wales were done with the training session, and the child was gasping for breath. When he spotted the two glasses of water his big brother was holding, his green eyes lit up and he grinned. "Ah -yes, please!" he choked out, quickly taking the water and gulping it down his burning throat in mere seconds.

"Don't ye think yer training a bit too hard?" Ireland asked with a smirk as he ruffled the kid's hair. "Ye dun' have to be an expert in just a month time, y'know. Ye can take it easy some days." But Northern Ireland shook his head and, with a quick sidewards glance at Wales, who nodded approvingly, grabbed the second glass of water that was meant for Wales as well and drank it quickly. "I can't take it easy!" he protested when he finished half the water, and paused until he downed the second half of it as well. "I can't! Arthur and Allistair can't take it easy, so why can I? I'm training to fight just as hard as them!" Ireland just laughed for a moment, then offered, "Do ye want to resume practice with bow an' arrow too, then? I think ye have much better aim now than three years ago, an' I'm happy to teach ye." Northern Ireland didn't hesitate a second before nodding enthusiatically. He was always impressed by how well Ireland handled his bow and arrows -but then again, the nation had used it for nearly a thousand years to catch his food with. He lived off using that thing for centuries on end -of course he'd be very experienced with it. North was already looking forward to the lessons.

"Do you really want to teach him how to handle weapons?" Wales demanded, giving his older brother a doubtful look. "I thought we promised not to let him use weapons until he-" But Ireland shook his head and interrupted him. "We were talking about knives and guns then, lad. An' d'ye honestly think I'd let him roam the streets with a bow in his hand and a full quiver on his back? He can use my bow to practice with, I'm not getting him his own." Ireland then glanced at North and added, "And no one would be stupid enough to sell a weapon to a child, so it's not like he can get one himself. Don't worry, Dylan. This is even more harmless than teaching him hand-to-hand combat techniques. An' besides, look at the things we used and did at his age, as ye said yerself not too long ago!"

"_Physical age_," Wales corrected his brother with an exasperated sigh. "He's only twenty, whereas we were well over a century or older!" Northern Ireland then put in, "I'm the same age as many people over at the warfront, I just don't look like it! You can't treat me like a child all the time, because I'm not! And don't talk about me as if I'm not here, sitting right beside you!" He then stormed off, slamming the door to the livingroom closed behind him. The two brothers sat dumbfounded and shocked as they listened to his footsteps going up the stairs at a quick pace. "What's gotten into him all of a sudden?" Wales mumbled to himself as he looked at the closed door with a frown. Ireland shrugged, not too sure himself. "Probably just the stress," he sighed. "Fear, anger, constant nerves... It's what war does to a person, and no matter what he might state, he _is_ still a kid after all..." After a few moments of silence, he asked quietly, "Should I go after him?"

Wales quickly shook his head. "If you recall Arthur's threat -I, eh... accidentally overheard him muttering something about it to Allistair after you'd left back then- I think it might be best if I go instead."

"He went upstairs, lad. Nice try."

Wales then rolled his eyes and averted his gaze with a sigh. "Well, then we should just let him fume for a moment. He'll talk when he's ready to talk, I'm sure. Once he gets hungry or thirsty he'll be downstairs again in a heartbeat." Ireland only gave a short nod, getting up and heading back to his study to continue doing his paperwork for the day, leaving Wales to do pretty much the same. As they were trying to teach North new things, they also couldn't forget fulfilling their duties as nations, which they sometimes rather would.

* * *

Hours went by, and North still didn't show up. So when the sun nearly set and the two brothers still hadn't heard so much as a squeak from the child, Wales agreed that they should go check on him. 'They' being only Ireland, he remembered with a sigh, as he couldn't get up the stairs. Slowly, Ireland went upstairs and called out to Northern Ireland softly, a bit unsure what to do or say. He hoped he would at least get an answer from the child, so he could tell what mood he was in and could adjust his methods to that. But it remained silent, which was perhaps the biggest hint of all: obviously North still didn't want to see him, or anyone else for that matter. With a soft sigh, Ireland gave a soft knock on the door to North's bedroom, calling him again. Still no reaction. Worry seemed to stab into his heart like a thin needle at this, so he opened the door. "Coineach, lil'-" The moment he walked into the room, his heart seemed to stop and his breath stuck in his throat. Northern Ireland was on the floor, curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his midriff and a pained expression on his face. His breathing came in quick gasps. He didn't seem to be conscious, though, which was what was most worrying. "Coineach? W-wake up, lad!" Ireland said frantically as he got onto his knees beside the child, trying to wake him. His heart was pounding against his ribs, so wild it actually hurt, as he picked up North's limp body and held him in his arms. "Hey, come on! C'mon, kid, wake up! Please, Coineach, j-just wake up...!" An eternity seemed to have gone by until Northern Ireland finally blinked open his eyes again, green irises staring up at his older brother through slits. They were glazed over with pain, and the 'needle of worry' in Ireland's heart had grown to the size of a sword by now.

"C-Cearul...?" North asked, his voice rasping, as he began fidgeting in his brother's arms, clearly in discomfort. Ireland helped him sit up, though the child still leaned against his big brother's shoulder, then asked him if he remembered anything about what had happened. North shook his head, grunting a bit at the motion, then answered softly, "Not exactly... But I was about to come downstairs again when... I-I just suddenly got really dizzy when I got up from my bed, and... I guess I blacked out...?" Ireland put his arm around the child's shoulder, as Northern Ireland had begun to shiver a bit by now, and the placed his free hand to North's forehead and cheek in turn. "You're warm..." he mused, only the slightest worry making it over his lips, as England's warning still haunted him right now. "How're ye feelin', Coineach?"

"Not so good..." North answered in a tiny voice, barely audible. "Cold, dizzy, nausious and tired..." Ireland sighed, pulling the young nation just a little closer. He already thought something like this would happen, as it was bound to happen before this war ended. When he asked how long the child had been feeling like this, North shrugged a little and answered, "A-all week, though it wasn't this bad before..."

"And yet ye insisted on working out like that every day?" Ireland asked, though it didn't really come out as a question and he went on before North could even answer, "Well, lil' brother, I'm not sure whether to be amused or worried... or even whether I should scold ye for bein' so reckless or just congratulate ye, but... Well, ye managed to overexert yerself for the very first time, I guess." North furrowed his brows and looked up at Ireland. He was feeling sick and tired and just plain awful, and Ireland was talking about being amused and _congratulating him_ for it? "Why would overworking myself be something good...?" he asked, confused. Ireland just smiled at him, a hint of pity in his eyes. "Well, it appears to be a thing in our lil' family," he explained. "We've all been at this point several times before. It was only a matter o'time before 'twas yer turn, actually, though I'd hoped it would be a while yet, of course..." North then nodded slowly, finally understanding. There were a few things that were a common occurence in this family, including getting drunk on a regular basis (except for North, obviously), believing several myths to be true (Scotland was still searching for the supposed 'Monster of Loch Ness'), being hotheaded when tired, being pretty much the most stubborn person out of all your people, having general bad luck and apparently also overworking oneself to this point.

"Anyway," Ireland then went on, glacing at the door briefly: North only now noticed a warm scent in the house. "Dylan should be nearly done finishing up dinner. D'ye want to come down and eat, or would ye rather just get into bed right now? Yer own choice." Northern Ireland considered it for a moment: he wasn't feeling up for dinner and would indeed rather just go to bed and sleep for a day, but his empty stomach didn't like the idea as much. So he said he'd eat a little first, though he really didn't want much as he thought he wouldn't be able to hold it in for long. So carefully, he went down the stairs, holding onto the railing as to not tip over and fall if he got dizzy again, Ireland watching him carefully, ready to help if needed. But he got downstairs without any trouble, though his pace was a bit slow. He and Ireland went into the kitchen first, where indeed, Wales was just finishing cooking dinner. He seemed shocked at seeing how pale the child had become in a matter of hours, asked him if he was alright, to which Ireland explained the situation quickly. Guilt flashed in the disabled nation's eyes, and he looked at Northern Ireland, sighing, "I'm sorry, little brother o'mine... I should have noticed that sooner. If I had, there's no way I would've let you train this much or help me out with paperwork or any of that." He laughed awkwardly for a moment, averting his gaze as he added, "W-well, damn, I'm beginning to feel like an irresponsible brother here!" But North shook his head, told him he wasnt, then climbed onto his lap and curled up against him. "I was the stupid one," he said softly, closing his eyes. "Not you. I shouldn't have been this stubborn." Wales patted him on his head gently, then asked Ireland if he could bring the pot of stew to the dining table for him. After that, he rolled over to the dining table with Northern Ireland still on his lap, placing one hand one the shivering boy's shoulder.

Ireland sighed as he put out the fire on the stove and brought the pot of food to the table, ready for dinner. He admired Northern Ireland's determination, he really did. But the young nation could sometimes be too determined to become like his big brothers. If only he knew the hardships the family had gone through and knew how much of it they'd caused themselves... maybe he wouldn't be as keen on becoming like them. And just maybe, that would be for the best.

* * *

**Okay, so, the first part was a bit of a recap of main events in Rising for those that haven't read Rising first... And other than that just Al and Artie having a moment.**

**And the second half, well... He had to catch it at some point. Overworking seems to be an epidemic within the British/Irish family, they can't really help it.**

**It won't be too long before he's up and about again, though, no worries. He's a kid and kids are too stubborn to be sick for a long time. **

**Well, thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, and please leave a much appreciated review to tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Wow... why is it, that when you type something in Wordpad it always looks huge... then it turns out it's not that big a chapter at all?**

**Anyway, I'm back with chapter 7! In this one, some more international stuff for North to get used to, more history, and then some bonding...**

**Crossfire, thanks a lot for the review, once again! They still never fail to make me happy!**

**And now, without further ado...**

* * *

By December 1941, the US, Britain, Australia and China declared war on Japan, who had by then attacked them all several times, focusing on the pacific area and Southeast Asia. And a month later, in January 1942, the Declaration of United Nations was issued, which stated that none of the Allied forces -and other governments- would not sign a peace treaty with any of the axis seperate from the other Allies. During this year, there were also several negotiations between the Allies on how to continue from this point onward.

"I say Operation Sledgehammer is the way to go," America said for the thousandth time already. He and his president insisted that their plan, a large-scale attack on Germany using 48 Allied divisions, would be the best course of action from now. The United Kingdom didn't agree, or at least Great Britain. Northern Ireland, who was attending a meeting such as this for the very first time, wasn't too sure. He thought it would be okay, but if three of his older brothers were against it, he would go along with them. He mostly remained silent and inspected the other nations, listening to America as he went on. "We'll attack them head-on and defeat them in mere weeks if we all work together on this! We'll work our way into Berlin and take it over. Then they won't be so willing to fight us anymore, I'm telling ya!"

Northern Ireland did notice that America wasn't exactly an expert at explaining military tactics. Even North could follow every bit of his idea, which wasn't too good, because he only understood about half of the other nations' ideas, which were thus far more complicated. And in his mind, complicated and good really went well together. England scoffed a little by the time America was done speaking and, crossing his arms over his chest, protested, "America, we've explained to you before, attacking them right now would be like writing our own death sentence! We must first demoralise their troops and put them in a tight spot, _then _we'll strike. Using your idea if necessary, but _not yet._"

"And what about the second front we've been asking for?" the Soviet Union -represented only by Russia- asked, sending England and America a small glare. His question wasn't answered, and North doubted his older brother even heard it, as at the same time, America had started complaining about England never agreeing to any of his ideas. He claimed it was only because of England's grudge against him that the older nation thought all his plans to be 'rubbish', as the Brit put it. Of course England protested fiercely against this, Wales then tried to intervene but failed, and the two just continued bickering like they apparently always did. Northern Ireland leaned over to Scotland for a moment, asking in a whisper of England really had such a grudge against the American. Scotland only gave a quick nod without hesitation. "Absolutely, laddie," he eventually whispered back. "For bein' abandoned after he raised the lad... The Revolution an' all that."

"Well, if you don't agree," America said eventually, voice edged with anger. "I'd like to hear what the rest of the UK thinks about it!" Wales and Scotland quickly said they agreed with their little brother, while North remained silent. He wasn't even aware he was expected to speak for the first time that day until America urged him on, "Well? And what does my lil' uncle over there think, hm? What about you, Ken-Con-C...North?" He still couldn't pronounce the name right. But Northern Ireland didn't even realise that, as all nations and people were now looking at him, waiting for him to say something. It was then that he felt like the eight-year-old he looked like, tiny and stupid compared to all the others in here. "I-uh, well... I-I..." he stammered, not sure what to say. Not even sure if he could bring himself to speak at all. Eventually he squeaked in a tiny voice "I agree with Arthur!" then pressed himself against Scotland's shoulder, trying his utmost to hide from everyone in the room.

"Ah, laddie," Scotland then complained to America, a disapproving look in his pale blue eyes. "Did ye have t'ask _him_ that? This is his first meetin', he's just a kid an' he's definitely not an expert in warfare. Hardly fair to put him under pressure like that, now is it?" He then put his arm around North, who pressed even closer to his big brother as if to strengthen the Scot's point. America sighed and apologised, "Yeah, right... sorry for that, kid."

Northern Ireland just went red with shame as he realised he just messed up the very first time he could speak in front of other nations during an important meeting. His first chance to show them he was a nation just like them, not just a little kid, and he blew it. Now they all surely thought he wasn't old enough to be here yet, not experienced enough to know anything, too childish to even take the situation serious. And he only made it worse by hiding against his big brother just now. Making up his mind in a split second, he pulled away from Scotland again, sitting with his back straight and his chin up. He refused to be seen as weak and little again. But suddenly, Russia asked once again when he would get the second front, which was meant to help his army fight the Germans as they couldn't do it by themselves anymore at this point. Anger laced his voice and North saw deep hatred in his eyes as he looked at America and the United Kingdom, which startled the child a bit. He couldn't remember ever having seen someone so angry.

"We cannot do that yet, Russia," England said carefully, also clearly noticing the other nation's frustration. "If we take away our focus from where we are fighting right now, we'll-"

"So you're just going to stand by and do nothing as my people are being slaughtered?!" Russia demanded, raising his voice as he got up and slammed his hands on the desk. "Winter was usually the thing that saved my people -we are used to the cold and our opponents aren't. Usually, they die of hypothermia and all such things, but now-!" He gritted his teeth for a moment, glaring at the desk as he folded his hands into tight fists. "Prussia has taken control of the German troops in my territory. _He _is just as used to the cold as me, having grown up in a similar climate centuries ago. _He _decides the tactics, and though they still aren't experts in the snow like my people, the Germans are doing a much better job at surviving and killing than in the previous world war. Out of all of us, _I_ have lost the most people!"

"And why do you think that is, Russia?" America asked, not impressed by the older nation's tirade. "You have the most people out of all of us, after all. The greatest army, too. If the only thing that can save your people in a war is your harsh winter, then doesn't that mean your army is incompetent and weak?"

Russia seemed ready to explode in rage at this, and if it weren't for the desk between them, he'd have gone to America and beaten him to a pulp for sure, the way North saw it. "_Ублюдок_! How dare you! My people are communists, not warmachines! We don't live to fight like _some_ of us here seem to do, thinking we can change the whole goddamn world! _We're realistic,_ and we live to better each other's and our own lives. War is not part of that. Why do you think I signed that treaty with the Germans before all this? I never anticipated they would break the pact, so my people weren't ready. And that is the _only _reason for our defeat!"

"Are you saying I'm a warmachine?" America then demanded, also getting up. "That I live only to fight and ruin other nations' lives? You say you're realistic, but yet you didn't even properly prepare for war, which you could've known was coming! You-!"

At that moment, China intervened quickly. "That's enough, of the both of you! Stop acting like children, even though you still are. That little boy over there is more mature than the two of you put together!" He pointed at Northern Ireland briefly, who went red again. As the two fighting nations sat down again, still glaring at each other, China huffed and crossed his arms. "Honestly, you two. I know I'm the oldest in here, but that the others would be _so childish_..." Northern Ireland stared at the Chinese man for a moment, and completely against his will, his concentration slipped and his thoughts wandered off for a moment. China wasn't just the oldest nation in this room, he was the oldest nation on the entire planet. He was at least four thousand years old, he'd seen empires rise and fall, nations disappear into nothingness and new ones being born. And yet, which was perhaps the strangest thing about him, he looked very young. England had told North that his father, the Roman Empire, had been the physically-oldest nation he'd ever seen, being in his early thirties. England was already older than his father had been when he died, and he was considered twenty-three by most people. China was more than twice his age and, to North's eyes, looked to be twenty-five at most. Even younger than Scotland, at least, who was widely considered to be twenty-six by humans. Other than his stunningly young appearance, the old nation looked different from anything North had ever seen before. He'd seen Asians sometimes, though not very often, so he was more or less familiar with their different skintone at least. But China's hair, which was a very dark brown, was long and tied into a ponytail that reached over his shoulders. It was a hairstyle that seemed strange to the child, more like something for a woman. Then there were his eyes. Brown eyes were perfectly normal, but these seemed to be almost honey-coloured, which was the most unique eyecolour he'd ever seen...

It was only when he got startled by the sound of Scotland's deep voice beside him that North remembered he had to focus on this meeting. Slightly ashamed that he'd let himself wander off like that, he listened to what his big brother had to say and to everything that was said after it.

* * *

Two days later, North was with Scotland in the older nation's home. It was one of the last weeks he had left with his two older brothers before he and Wales would have to go back to Ireland again, though this time they'd be in Belfast for a month or two at the very least. He'd spent most of 1942 with his older brothers in the UK since they'd come back from North Africa, but soon they would be sent away again or be too busy to have North around. But the young nation didn't want to leave them quite yet, especially not after having been with Ireland for over a year -not that he disliked Ireland, he loved him very much, but he always enjoyed staying with other UK members more.

"I wish you didn't have to fight anymore," Northern Ireland sighed as he sat beside his big brother, leaning against his shoulder and reading a book together with him. Scotland stopped reading immediately and let out a soft sigh. "Yeah, me too, laddie..." he sounded tired, not physically but just _tired_. Tired of the constant fighting, the tensions and the entire war. "Me too... But the harder we work, the sooner it's over. You know that, right?" Northern Ireland nodded slowly, snuggling up to Scotland just a bit more, enjoying the warmth. He also liked feeling his brother's shoulder rising and falling rythmically as he breathed, hear his heartbeat, however distant. Those were all the little things he hadn't even known he'd missed until he sensed them again like this.

"I just don't want to go to Ireland..." he mumbled eventually, after which Scotland remained silent a little too long to his liking: it meant he was shocked at hearing that little sentence. But he sounded calm as he asked, "Cearul or just Ireland?"

"...Just Ireland..."

"Why not? Yer goin' to Belfast, right? I know it's not yer favourite place t'be yet, but ye know y'always feel better once ye come there. It's yer capital an' it's yer home. An' one day, when yer old enough, ye'll live there by yerself," the Scot then explained softly, remaining just as calm as ever. North nodded again. Scotland was right, he did always feel great when he was in Belfast. He'd been born there and it was his capital, but he just didn't want to go there now. Not with Ireland. "Cearul hates it there," he explained. "He always gets a little on edge in Belfast, gets angry a lot quicker than usual and just seems plain unhappy... I don't want to be there with _him_."

"So Cearul _is _the problem," Scotland mused, not sounding surprised at all. But Northern Ireland quickly shook his head, protesting. He didn't mind being with his oldest brother, but he just didn't want to be with him in Belfast, for obvious reasons. "And, well..." he mumbled after a little while. "I don't always like the way he acts around me. Same for Dylan. All my life, they've been... overprotective? I don't know the right word for it, but... You know what I mean, right?"

Scotland nodded, not looking at North as he took a deep breath. "Well, I can't blame them," he replied. "An' 'specially not Cearul. He's the oldest an' yer the youngest, laddie. He sees it as his duty to protect ye an' take care o'ye, like we all do. Dylan loves ye very much an' doesn't want anythin' bad to ever happen to ye. Artie an' I don't act like that because we're just different in that. I always liked a certain amount o'freedom back when I was a wee lil' lad, Artie took care of himself from day one. Not only that, he's raised many colonies, so he knows how to raise a kid very well. Cearul an' Dylan just want ye t'be safe an' happy."

North pouted in frustration, averting his gaze when Scotland looked down at him. "I know, but do they have to act like my _parents _all the time? Especially Cearul seems to think he's like... my dad or something sometimes." The silence after this didn't last long enough, contrary to the previous ones. Scotland's answer came so quick, it almost seems defensive.

"And though he isn't, I also can't blame the old man for that," he said quickly, and North looked up at him again, confused. Upon seeing the confusion in his little brother's eyes, the Scot sighed, and begun explaining slowly. The first thing North noticed about him was how his entire mood seemed to have changed in a split second. He looked even more tired than before and... just _sad._ "Y'know what I hate most 'bout bein' a nation?" he asked first, to which North answered with 'immortality', as he heard his older brother complain about it sometimes. But Scotland shook his head. "No, though in certain situations it _is_ a close second. No, what I hate most, is how humans think of us as privileged because of our immortality, while _they _are the most privileged creatures on Earth. What good is immortality, when you have no one to share it with?"

"But we have each other," North piped up, even more confused by now. "We're a family, the five of us."

"We are, but... not _like that_," Scotland answered, explaining further. "I know we're all brothers and I couldn't be happier with y'all. I mean, we all really care 'bout each other and care for one another... But it's not always the type of family I'd like. An' I think the same goes for Cearul. I know _ye_ probably never thought about it before, an' at yer age that's normal, but... when one has lived for thousands o'years, there's always that lil' thought... 'It's unfair that we live so long, but aren't allowed to share our eternity'. We can't have a family like humans do, we can't be parents, we can't get married to someone we love... we can't even have a relationship with someone even without marriage involved. An' when a nation _does_ marry, it's unvoluntarily to another nation, sometimes someone they can't stand, all for the sake of a strong union of two nations. Because their government wishes so." Northern Ireland was completely silent now, staring up at Scotland as the older nation was explaining all this, finally beginning to understand...

"The worst part is befriending our people. An' then, after a few years, we get an invitation to their wedding. A few years after that a letter saying they're now proud parents of the cutest lil' baby ye've ever seen. After little less than two decades, ye get another proud letter with a photograph of that kid's graduation from high school, yer human friends beside their child, happier than they've ever been. Give it a few more years an' they'll come to visit ye, tellin' ye they're now grandparents... An' ye know what happens a few decades later? They die. They die, and ye go to their funeral, and ye see their children an' grandchildren there, and yer out o'the picture even though ye've been that person's friend their entire life. And at moment ye realise ye don't belong in the same world humans do. A nation can never find someone to grow old with, have a family, watch them grow up happy and healthy, then die after a beautiful life. We have a beginning with no end, a life without a chance to live. And sometimes I just wish I was human, too, even if it meant I'd die after a few decades. At least I could lead the life I see so many others do. Because that -seeing how others lead the life ye deem perfect while ye can never have it- is by far the loneliest thing in the world."

Northern Ireland was silent after that, not even sure what just happened. Scotland was always the most cheerful one of all his brothers, so where... where did all this come from? Did he really always keep all that bottled up inside of him and just acted happy and cheerful? He hoped Scotland's personality _wasn't _an act, that he was truly happy even though he had regrets like these. And that Ireland, too, probably felt like this sometimes, same for Wales and England... It was horrible. North had always liked being a nation, but he'd never looked at the downside of it yet. And Scotland was right, at his age it was normal not to think about _this_ yet, but still... He now understood why Ireland acted the way he did. The time shortly after North had been born had probably been one of the few times his oldest brother had felt like -like a _normal person. _Physically Ireland was almost thirty -or thirty already, the young nation could never tell- and most humans that age had settled in with their partner already, were raising a young family... and for once in his eternal life, he'd been able to have something relatively close to that. And then North left to live with his other brothers in the United Kingdom, and all that had been taken away from him again. Northern Ireland almost felt bad for ever leaving, even though he'd been too young to really choose for himself back then.

And what about ancient nations like China? Suddenly, North wished he'd never be that old. Not if it had to be like that, not if his life had to be as lonely as Scotland described it to be.

"But, laddie," Scotland suddenly said, patting the young nation on the shoulder. "Don't let this get ye down, okay? I shouldn't...Well, it wasn't my intention to make it a sob-story like that, an' I'm sorry. When I say I sometimes wish that, I really mean _sometimes._ Usually I don't even think about it that much, none of us do. Because, as awful as it might sometimes be, life as a nation is beautiful as well, an' don't ye ever forget that. Our life is hard, but wonderful as well. Don't ever forget to look at the bright side, because that's the most important of all. Aye?"

And then Northern Ireland nodded and smiled again, reassured that his brothers were as happy with life as he was. And no matter what they might wish for sometimes, they would just have to accept the fact that _they_ were each other's family. And though they couldn't have anyone else,_ they _shared their eternity. The five of them, together.

* * *

**Well, I never said the bonding wasn't paired with angsty stuff. I've just been thinking lately that this must be the worst part of nation life. I can't imagine what it's like to live that long in the first place, but to live that long and _not share your life_ with someone other than siblings... It must be awful.**

**Aaannnd Scotland hates it even more then he let's little North think. I think he, if he were a human, would definitely be the family-man type, so...**

**Anyway, thanks for reading again, and I hope you liked this chapter! I'm going to race through the rest of the World War from here on, so don't be surprised by the many time-skips. Thanks again!**


	8. Chapter 8

**And so, I managed to write the longest chapter yet, perhaps in both Trouble and Rising!**

**Crossfire, thank you for the wonderful review, and annalisedream for the follow! Way to brighten up a day!**

**Well, this chapter is quite angsty... You can't expect lovey-dovey fluff from me, not even after Valentine's day! (Though perhaps it's finally time for that PruIta fluff I've been wanting to write for so long now...?) So be warned.**

**Well, there's not much I have to say, so here you go, chapter 8:**

* * *

Everything around Northern Ireland was dark, a pitch black emptiness. He looked around, searching for light, searching for just _anything _he could see, but there was nothing around him at all. He called out, but he didn't even hear his own voice. His heart racing with fear, he started running as fast as he could, trying to escape the darkness. And eventually, after minutes at least, he saw something: a figure on the ground. Curious and relieved, he ran towards it, his heart beating even faster when he recognized the messy, dark red mop of hair that could only belong to Scotland. Though what made his heart beat even faster wasn't relief anymore, as the Scot's hair wasn't the only thing about him that was red. North wanted to stop running, to turn away and not look at his older brother, but he couldn't. Almost against his will, he got closer and closer until he stood beside him, looking down at the older nation wide-eyed. Scotland was wearing a military uniform, though considering the situation, nothing was strange about that. But the clothes were torn all over, thin but long rips covering it and blood soaking the cloth around the cuts. His hands and face, too, were covered in cuts and bruises and what looked like some sort of burns, so much so that North could hardly recognize his big brother. But what frightened the child most were his brother's eyes: it was as though a fog lay in them, not thick enough to hide his blue irisses completely, but more than enough to make them a milky gray with only hints of blue in them. But his pupils were nowhere to be found. His eyes, unseeing, stared into the darkness above him, and with a cold feeling of dread North realised his dear big brother was dead.

_I have to get to Arthur, _he thought frantically, finally turning around and running away, away from his brother's corpse as fast as he could. There was not a single thought in his mind at that moment, not one, except for that he _had to get to England._ And eventually he found him, but the moment he saw him, the dread that was growing in the pit of his stomach only got worse. England, too, was on the ground, lying on his front instead. A large pool of blood lay around him, and with shaking hands, North rolled his brother onto his back. His face was pale as a corpse, which the child already knew he was, anyway. His eyes, unlike Scotland's, were still normal, except that there was no light in them at all, not the usual shimmer of emotion, not anything. They, like his older brothers' had, stared ahead without seeing anything. What had caused his death was clear: a deep gash ran over his abdomen, blood steadily flowing out of it. The pool had expanded enough that North was now standing in it. Feeling sick to the stomach and shaky with fear, the child turned around once more.

He didn't have to look far before he found Wales, but once again he wished he hadn't found him. Wales lay on his side, back turned to North when the child found him, also bleeding. He lay almost curled into a ball, the agony he'd been in still visible in his expression. His eyes, at least, were closed, and North was grateful for that. If he had to see _one_ more dead stare from one of his brothers... he wouldn't even know what he would do. The most sickening part about Wales' corpse was not the fact he was dead, nor the blood gushing out of a gunshot wound in his abdomen, not even the expression of pure pain on his face. No, what really made North's stomach do a somersault, was his lower back. From his shoulders down to his waist, it looked perfectly normal. But at that point, it resembled a twig, snapped just like that, practically broken in half. At this, North let out a whimper, then a soft wail and some sobs, but still there wasn't a single sound coming over his lips even though he felt it all in his throat. His three big brothers were dead. He was the last person in the United Kingdom.

_But not in the family_, he told himself. _Cearul is still here._ He turned around, and suddenly saw the back of a chair which hadn't been there before: he'd come from that direction, after all. But he didn't even care where it came from, because he saw ginger hair that was just a shade lighter than his own, an arm that wasn't nearly as pale as North's other brothers had been, and reassured, he ran over to him. Judging by the position -or what North could see of it, anyway- Ireland was simply reading. But the child's heart nearly stopped when he went around the chair to stand in front of his oldest brother. Because no matter how you looked at it, Ireland was as dead as the other three were. He had no gruesome wounds like his younger brothers, but one, thin cut in the most crucial of places: his wrist, right across the artery. North stared at it for a while, unable to look away, then looked up to see Ireland's face. He couldn't very well see his eyes, though he thought they were closed, but he certainly did see the tear stains still on his cheeks and jaw. Northern Ireland was just starting to wonder what had happened, what had killed even the oldest and perhaps strongest of the family, when he saw something he hadn't noticed yet: a knife, small but razor sharp... in Ireland's own hand.

And that's when the boy screamed in terror.

He was sitting upright in an instant, gasping for breath as his heart pounded wild with fear. He screamed again, jumping out of his bed and running out of his room, slamming open the door to Ireland's. He saw his brother lying under the covers, mostly hidden under them, but definitely breathing. Still, he simply couldn't control himself after everything he'd just seen and ran over to him. "Cearul!" he called, biting back a sob. Even though he knew it had all just been a nightmare, the utter terror he'd felt still plagued him even now. "Cearul, wake up, _please wake up!_" But Ireland groaned -and with a shock, North realised he sounded like he was in pain- and curled up a bit, frowning in his sleep. "Cearul!" North kept calling him, growing more afraid with the second. "CEARUL!"

"Coineach..." Ireland now whispered in reply, though he sounded anything but pleased as he brought one hand to his forehead, his eyes shut tight. "Please don't..." Now, judging by the way his older brother sounded, North was certain Ireland was in pain, and he only got more scared and worried. "A-are you alright?!" he asked, panicked, and Ireland flinched, curling up even further as he hissed back, "No, dammit! Coineach, I haven't slept well in _days_, it's the middle o'the godforsaken night and my head is _damn well killing me!_ Be quiet, _please!_"

Northern Ireland, too, flinched and he took a step back, startled. "K-killing...?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. But Ireland didn't seem to notice the child's fear, as he turned around onto his other side, away from the young nation, answering, "_Yes_. These damn headaches... Coineach, would ye please be quiet?" he added when the child let out a soft whimper. "It's still early, lad... go back to sleep, okay? It'd be best for the both of us..." Northern Ireland shook his head, even though Ireland didn't look. The dream was still to fresh in his mind for him to sleep again. "But Cearul-!"

"Get out!" the Irishman interrupted harshly, sighing. "Coineach, I tried to ask ye nicely, tell ye why, but-" The young boy tried to say something else, but Ireland, clearly on edge because of whatever caused him pain right now, wouldn't even let him speak. "GET OUT!"

Startled and hurt, Coineach ran out of his big brother's room again without another word. In the hallway, he stood sniffling for a moment, not sure what to do now, then made up his mind and went down the stairs quickly. His vision was blurred with tears now, causing him to almost slip and fall halfway down the stairs, but once on the ground floor he immediately ran over to the door to Wales' room. His fingers were trembling so much, he could hardly open the door, and he was actually crying at this point. He just wanted to make sure all his brothers were okay, that they were still alive and well.

Wales didn't wake up when North entered his room, not even by the child's crying, his whimpers and his frantic sobs. He lay on his side, face turned to Northern Ireland, who didn't even bother to wake him and got into the bed instantly, crawling against his big brother under the covers. He hid his face against Wales' chest and cried, hugging him tightly. This woke up Wales after only a few seconds, and drowsily he asked, "C-Coineach...? Hey, kid, what's going on...?"

"Cearul-!" North choked out, stopping himself. Ireland had mentioned a headache, he recalled, and he suddenly remembered having seen his brother taking pills a lot the last few weeks. They must have been painkillers, he realised now, as Ireland had been complaining about constant headaches for a while now. And even through the painkillers, he sometimes still locked himself in his study with the curtains drawn and the lights out, just to have some darkness and quiet. Northern Ireland had probably woken him in the middle of a fairly severe headache, yelling and making a racket while the older nation hadn't even taken so much as a paracetamol. He could now understand his anger and frustration, though it did nothing to help the child right now. So instead of telling what had happened just a minute or two ago, North choked out, "J-just a rea-really s-scary dream..."

Wales, still half-asleep, hugged the boy a little tighter at that. "Well, don't you worry... 'twas just a dream..." North nodded, still sniffling and sobbing silently. Then, very softly, he said, "Y-you were all dead... all killed... i-it was so horrible!" Wales let out a low hum, trying to sound comforting, but he sounded mostly tired. "But we're not..." he tried to comfort his little brother. "We're all still breathing..." North nodded, but he just couldn't control himself and started crying again. Wales just whispered words of comfort to him, stroked his hair a bit and held him. After a little while, he lay still again, whispering, "Hey, Coineach..." The young boy sniffled again, trying to stay quiet even if just for a moment so he could hear what Wales wanted to tell him. His older brother shifted a bit, so that North lay with his ear against he older nation's chest. "Do you hear that?" And indeed, just hearing the Welshman's heartbeat and feeling him breathing calmed the boy down again, and he leaned against him, closing his eyes and trying to relax. "We're all alive, Coineach. It was just a bad dream," Wales mumbled, sounding as though he could fall asleep again any moment now. "My heart's still beating, and so is Cearul's and Allistair's and Arthur's and your's. We're all still alive and well. Now try and sleep again, okay? You can stay here with me, but try to sleep... it's way too early." North nodded again, letting out a shaky sigh. A sob still escaped his lips every few breaths, but he was calm again now, reassured that everything was alright. But just before he fell asleep again, warm and contently still held in his big brother's arms, he realised _he couldn't be sure. Who knew how Scotland and England were doing, after all?_

* * *

For it was the morning of 6 June, 1944. British and American troops invaded Normandy. America's plan was being used at last: it was an all-out attack on German forces in France. And once France was liberated, the rest of Europe would soon follow. That is, if the attack didn't fail. First they had to get past the beach, which was an ordeal in itself. England, Scotland and America were -and it was an truly exceptional thing in a war- on the same ship that was closing in on Omaha beach. They weren't the first to land, and they watched troops of mixed nationalities storming the beach. Some couldn't take much more than a few steps before something would explode. America got tense just looking at it. "Landmines," he hissed under his breath. "Those bastards..."

"But wouldn't you do the same?" England questioned, trying to sound calm. But he too was tense as he shot the men on the beach horrified glances. America didn't answer that, so he didn't say a word more until the ship stopped moving, close to the shore. There, he took a deep breath, looked his older brother and America in the eyes and said, "Well, we'd better get down there... We're generals, after all, and immortals. They need us." And so, weapons in their hands, they went down and out into the water. The first few metres were the hardest, with the water up to their waist -or higher, in England's case- but eventually running felt almost like breathing -as if they'd done it their entire lives. They had to be quick and careful if they even wanted to get past the mines in one piece. And not only that, they were like sitting ducks for the German troops up on the cliffs if they were too slow. And who could guarantee Germany wasn't among them?

England didn't even notice he was out of breath after a few minutes, and just kept on running, trying to dodge attacks and firing a few bullets himself, though he hadn't hit anyone yet. Not good enough, at least, as they just continued attacking others. But he couldn't be bothered by them for too long: according to the plan, he had to be somewhere near the front of the troops at all times. He looked to his right for a split second and saw Scotland running a few metres ahead of him, stopping to aim at a German soldier and shoot the man, then continuing. England was shocked: Scotland had never been the type to kill. But then he saw the man he'd shot wasn't dead, but shot in the thigh to immobilise him. Now that was Scotland as he knew him, though he didn't want to think about what some people would do to a defenseless soldier like that one later...

Then, through the deafening explosions and exclamations, he suddenly heard a screech that sent shivers down his spine. Horrified, he looked to his left now, trying to find the person he knew that voice belonged to. And then when he did, he wished he had just continued following orders and not bothered to turn around. In the air was still the cloud of sand and dust that covered the beach everytime a mine exploded. He didn't want to see the mangled bodies and -parts, so he looked past them. And a little further down the beach lay America, curled up. England called out to him and ran towards him, shooting the two Germans who apparently thought of the wounded American as easy prey right now. One of them died, but he didn't even feel the usual stab of guilt and digust at his action as he quickly approached the young nation. He was alive and conscious, but the latter only barely. Someone else must've stepped on a mine close to him, England realised as he knelt down beside America. The ones that stepped on it didn't seem to stay in one piece. America had been able to shield his face with his arms, so nothing had hit him in the head at least. But his arms were cut and burnt. What really made England's stomach do a somersault were the two pieces of metal that had dug into his abdomen and stomach, seemingly very deep. "Dammit," England cursed loudly, though his words were drowned out by the noise around him. "Dammit, America! You -you utter _fool!_ Didn't I say we were needed down here? You can't just go and get hurt like this, you know!" Harsh as his words were, his voice was unstable and he held the young nation by the shoulders, shaking him just the slightest to get his attention.

America opened his eyes to slits, looking up at England with glassy eyes. "You don't have to yell... limey..." England sighed in relief, quickly looking up when he saw something from the corner of his eyes. And to make matters a million times worse now, he stared right into the icy blue eyes of Germany. The young nation had his gun pointed at England and America, finger on the trigger, but he didn't shoot. England didn't say a word, not even cussing despite the dire situation he and America were in now, and quickly reached for his own gun. But he didn't even have to pick it up. Germany lowered his own gun before England even had the chance to do anything, looking at America with horror in his eyes. Then he knelt down as well, sliding his arms under the American's knees and shoulders. England instinctively stopped him, but Germany only glared ay him. "Just trust me, idiot!" he said quickly before picking America up and running to a small cove in the cliffs close by, shielded from any bullets. England, who wasn't even sure what was going on, just followed him closely.

He got there just as Germany put America down again and started pulling the metal chunks out of his abdomen, eliciting a scream from the injured nation. Without even thinking, England pulled his small pistol -for he'd dropped his rifle in sheer haste- and held it against the side of Germany's head, who stopped moving immediately. "J-just what do you think you're d-doing?" England demanded angrily, trying so hard to sound confident but failing so miserably. Germany did a better job at remaining calm than him, or at least keeping up the facade. "Trying to save a fellow nation, obviously." England lowered the pistol at this, but didn't let go yet. Germany quickly pulled the last piece of metal out of America, then put pressure on the wound, though not for long as it was healing quickly now that it had the chance. England remained cautious, ready to defend himself and America if Germany tried anything, but just this seemed to anger the young blond nation. "Look!" he exclaimed, turning to look at England. "I'm just trying to help! I'm just as sick of this var as you are! I never vanted another var, not so soon after the previous one-" He stopped suddenly, averting his gaze, and for the first time in years, England saw the child Germany was still supposed to be by nation standards. He wasn't even a century old... there were _humans_ older than him. At that age, England himself had been little more than a toddler. And then he felt a stab of pity and also dismay as he tried to imagine Northern Ireland fighting in this war. After all, that wasn't too different from Germany fighting, except that the German had the physical age of a young adult, maybe someone in his late teens still..._ He's just a kid,_ he thought, horrified. _He's just a kid and he's fighting his second World War..._ But then Germany got up, grabbing his rifle and turning around to leave again.

"H-hey, kid!" England tried to catch his attention quicjly before he left. Germany looked over his shoulder, waiting for what England had to say. "T-thank you... and I'm sorry," the Brit stammered awkwardly. Germany just nodded. "That's okay... Just don't tell anyone about this. If anyone finds out I helped the enemy..." Fear flashed in his eyes for a moment, and that was the last England saw of him before he ran off into battle again. Stunned by what had just happened, he turned to America to help the younger nation, begging the skies to keep Scotland safe as well. This was their first step to saving Europe, saving the world even, but it was a hellish day indeed.

* * *

Near the end of the morning, hundreds of kilometres away in Belfast, Wales and Northern Ireland were talking softly when finally, Ireland came downstairs as well. Despite how long he'd stayed in bed, which was very unusual for him, he didn't look rested at all. In fact, he was paler than North could remember ever having seen him, and he didn't say much besides a quick 'goodmorning' and an apology to North for shouting at him that night. Wales eyed him carefully, greeted him as well and didn't say a word to him afterward. North had told him how Ireland had acted when the child had gone to him at night, and he wasn't exactly pleased, though he understood Ireland as well. North had just started telling him the details about his nightmare now that the memories of it weren't so fresh in his mind anymore, and when Wales saw how the boy looked up at him, he sighed and listened to the rest of it. "So you were all dead and I went to find the others and- I mean, I first found Allistair and he was cut and bruised and burnt all over. And his eyes were so scary! So when I realised he was dead, I went to search for Arthur, but when I found him he was on the ground, too. There was a deep gash across his abdomen and he'd bled to death. Then I found you and... and you were shot in the stomach, your back broken like a twig. And then I turned around and saw Cearul sitting in a chair. He had a cut on his wrist, right across the, uh, the big vein-"

"Artery?"

"-that one. And in his other hand he held a blade, so I think he..." North then trailed off as he realised both his older brothers were staring at him wide-eyed. Ireland, especially, seemed horrified at the part about him, and he asked softly, "How... how do ye know all that, lad?"

North flinched at this, and he quickly demanded, "K_-know?_ I dreamt it! Y-you mean it was all real?" Wales shot his older brother an accusing glare, then answered carefully, "Well, what you described, Coineach, sounded a lot like what happened in the years before you were born. Allistair, when he came back from the warfront in the Great War, was indeed cut and bruised. His skin was a bit burnt by the poison gas as well at first, though that all healed before we got to see him. And what happened to his eyes is the reason he's wearing glasses now -the poison damaged them and rendered him blind for a year. But don't worry, he never actually stopped breathing or anything. And during one of the worst battles in the Great War, the damage it caused Arthur was so great, a deep gash formed on his abdomen and he... Well, he died. But Allistair managed to reanimate him before it was too late, and he's still with us and strong and healthy, so it's okay. And you know what happened to me. I was shot accidentally and broke my spine. A-as for Cearul..."

"I was depressed, lad," Ireland sighed, one hand already pressed against his forehead again and his eyes closed. He was having a bad headache again. "I was depressed and didn't really know what I was doing and I... I started cutting myself. It never got out o'hand to the point I could've killed myself -well, except... No, never mind." He shook his head, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, his jaws clenched. Then he looked at Wales through one eye and smiled. "If it hadn't been for my lil' brothers helping me back up, I have no idea what would've happened. But they really saved me from myself back in the day. I honestly believe they saved my life." Northern Ireland stared at him wide-eyed, then at Wales and back again. He'd heard about Scotland. He knew the story of what happened to Wales. But no one had ever told him England had actually died at one point, no one had ever said a word about Ireland's depression and cutting. So how could he have dreamt about it, and why?

"But we're all okay now, lad," Ireland reassured him as he got up from where he said. "So don't ye worry, okay?" North nodded silently and stared after him as he went into the kitchen. He was curious as to why he dreamt about it, but he wasn't worried about things that happened twenty or more years ago. He was more worried about Ireland _now,_ as the older nation grunted a bit, muttering complaints about the light being too bright (though it was still rather dim, North thought) and swayed just the tiniest bit as he walked.

He sighed and, the moment Ireland was out of earshot, turned to Wales and asked, "Do you know what's wrong with him? Aside from 'having constant headaches'..." Wales nodded, adjusting his wheelchair a bit so he could lean on the table with his elbows, then explained, "Those headaches are caused by his people. He's been having them for years, really, but being in Belfast makes them a lot worse. Some of his people never wanted to leave the United Kingdom-"

"Those are now my people," North interjected, but Wales shook his head.

"Aside from those in Ulster. There are more, spread across the entire Irish Republic, that still want to become a part of the UK again. And then there are those that want Ulster -you- to join and become one with the Republic. And of course, the people that are content with the way things are now. His people can't make up their minds about what they want, and he feels that. As for why it is worse in your territory than his own, I'm not sure, but it is. Especially after a longer period of time, like now." Northern Ireland remained silent for a little while, wondering why he didn't get a headache, too. His people thought the same, right? They wanted to seperate from the Uk or stay there, it was divided, just like in the Republic of Ireland. But maybe, he thought, it was less divided than there. Or maybe he was too young to pick up on those things yet. As a baby he hadn't felt the pain of the civil war, after all, feeling the damage done to his people and landmass came much later.

Ireland then came back with a glass of water and two small pills in his hands, asking casually, "What day is it, anyway? Can't seem to remember..." Wales stiffened at this and mumbled a quick "June 6", averting his gaze. All colour that was still hidden somewhere in Ireland's face now faded, and he looked pale as paper. Northern Ireland looked from Wales to Ireland, confused. "Ye gotta be kiddin' me, lad," Ireland breathed, eyes wide with horror. "Ye gotta be kiddin' -ah!" The glass he'd been holding slipped from his grasp and shattered on the ground, water splashing up against his feet and the table. "I-I'll go... clean that up..." he then mumbled turning around slowly, absent-mindedly almost. "_June 6... _bloody hell, no..." Wales quickly rolled away from where he sat at the table and over to Ireland's side, grabbing him by the wrist. The older nation only looked at him from over his shoulder, the same look of horror and shock in his pale eyes. "Cearul," Wales said calmly. "Brother, do me a favour and go back to bed. You haven't slept in days, I can tell. So please-"

"I can't, darn it," Ireland answered, shaking his head and pulling his arm free. "N-not when Arthur a-an' Allistair are... Bloody hell, Dylan, don't say such nonsense. I'm fine. Now move -_carefully_\- so I can clean up the glass an' such." He then walked away to grab a few things in the kitchen, leaving Wales to sigh in defeat and roll back to sit beside his little brother. Immediately, North asked what was so special about today, but Wales wouldn't answer. Not before they'd had news about it, at least. So the child pouted a bit, annoyed. He knew it had something to do with the war, and though he'd been to a meeting, he wasn't allowed to know about what was going on today? It was unfair. He huffed, watching Ireland come back into the room, clean the glass and water away and then leave again to dispose of it. "So Cearul has been overworking himself lately?" he asked, just for the sake of talking about _something_. Wales laughed a bit and shook his head, answering, "Nah, more like over_worrying._ He'll be fine." He then looked away, adding silently, "I just hope Allistair and Arthur will be, too..."

"They will," North answered immediately, still unaware of what today would bring. "Of course they will. They're my brothers and they can survive anything. As they did before." But as he said this, fear overwhelmed him. Both his big brothers here seemed afraid of today, after all, and that couldn't mean anything good. He was worried sick now, afraid that his nightmare would come true in the end.

* * *

**So I thought it was time for a few things: North finding out about the horrible things that had happened to the family before his birth (as he was still under the illusion their lives had been just fine aside from a few things), Germany showing that he isn't evil (because he is not) and mentioning of the ever-lasting tensions between Unionists and Nationalists. They just never seem to stop...  
**

**So yeah. I wrote it.**

**Within the next two chapters, I think, WWII is over in this story, and the next 'arc' can begin (and now my old school project about the Troubles comes in real handy... had to make a timeline and all that stuff)**

**Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it! and please leave a review~**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for another review, Crossfire!**

**By the way, I was planning on getting back into animating and all that, which was perhaps my greatest hobby before writing... and then I heard _Brothers_, sung by Vic Mignogna, today and it just _screamed_ Rising to me. So perhaps, some day in the future, I might post a link to a video with that song...? We'll see.**

**Here's chapter 9 of Trouble:**

* * *

_Everything went alright,_ England wrote one evening, after most battle was over for now and the troops had set up camp close the the French shore safely. He sighed before continuing to write. What should he say? Too much detail would only worry his brothers, too little would make them think he was hiding something -leading them to worry even more. Not only that, his mind was practically on hold right now: after everything that had happened the last few days, he was more exhausted than he could remember ever having been. But he had promised to write to his brothers back home as soon as he got the chance, so they would know he was okay still. If he didn't write them, he could just about imagine the three of them finding their way here to check on him and Scotland themselves. Especially Ireland, judging by how tense he'd been just before his two younger brothers left for the war again, might very well hop onto the first military plane he could get his hands on, then crash into the sea as he didn't know how to fly one. Either that, or he'd find a way to sprout his own wings and fly across the sea to France -getting lost and landing in Portugal instead, being without navigation. So writing a letter, however hard it was to him now, was an absolute must.

_The plan worked splendidly. There were many casualties, though. Not nearly enough to cripple our troops, don't worry -but too many still. Every death is one too many, after all._  
_Me and Allistair... we're doing just fine. Some scratches, some bruises, but mostly just tired. I am worried about Matthew, however -he wasn't on the same beach as us, and I haven't heard from him yet. It should be soon, but I sincerely hope that boy is alright._  
_I really haven't much to say now, except that I could fall asleep as I'm writing this, so I will keep it short for now. Maybe, when I've rested a bit, I'll write more. Or else Allistair will, I'm sure._

_Take care, all of you. We'll be home soon. The war can't last much longer now._

_-Arthur_

_P.S. Germany won't be an issue anymore._

He read the letter again, decided he was satisfied with it, then folded it neatly and put it in an envelope, glad to be done for the day. He was ready to sleep now... but he couldn't, not quite yet. With a stab of worry in his heart, he turned to America, who was asleep. England had decided he'd stay with America at all times until he'd fully recovered. The only reason he wasn't in an infirmary was because humans could never help him. His injuries hadn't fully healed yet, and since the American troops had suffered the most casualties, they wouldn't for the next two days at least. At least the deep cuts in his stomach and abdomen were closed now, so he wasn't really in danger anymore. Still, England knelt down beside him and gently grabbed one of his hands, which were both covered in bandages. The burns on his fingers and palms hadn't healed yet, but those on the rest of his arms had by now, which was a relief. He would be fine again soon, given he could rest properly. Eventually, the Englishman sighed and got up again, whispering a soft 'sleep well' to the young nation, the lay down on his own bed, still staring at the other nation for a little while. "You're far too young for war, kid," he sighed after a minute or so, closing his eyes. And much against his will, he once again saw images of Germany on the battlefield. If anyone was still a child, too young for battle, it was him. He could only hope -for himself, his brothers and that poor boy- that this war wouldn't last long anymore.

* * *

Wales sat in his wheelchair between the dinnertable and the couch, which had been moved close to each other the evening before for this one purpose. He had one hand on each piece of furniture as he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Northern Ireland sat on the couch, watching him carefully. The Welshman was somewhere between excited and downright terrified, and for a moment, he wondered if he shouldn't wait for Ireland to be done with his paperwork (the older nation was practically being drowned in it by his government lately) before he would try this, but excitement got the upperhand eventually. And so, he took another deep breath and got up very slowly and with a lot of difficulty. He supported most of his weight with his arms, but even so, he was standing for the first time in twenty-three years, and it felt amazing. For a moment, he just couldn't believe it himself, and apparently neither could North, as he was just staring at his older brother with wide but expressionless eyes. Then, a second later, he smiled wide and started clapping. Wales, too, just couldn't _not _smile. _His feet were on the ground. He was standing._ Now, if only he could depend on his arms a little less... But the moment he relaxed his arms even the slightest bit, his weakened legs couldn't support him anymore and he was on the floor within a second, only just able to break his fall in time.

"Dylan!" North immediately exclaimed, leaning over the back of the couch and looking down at him. "Are you okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, jumping off the couch, running around the corner of it and kneeling down in front of his big brother, ready to help him up. Wales groaned a bit, both in disappointment and pain as his elbows had caught most of the impact. He then nodded silently and sat up, looking over his shoulder at his wheelchair. He would get in it again, then out of it and just try again. Try again was all he could. He forced a smile when he saw North's worried gaze, though smiling was about the last thing he felt like doing. "I'm okay, Coineach, really. I could hardly expect the first time up on my feet in two decades to be longer than this, now could I?" Without waiting for a reply from the child, he turned a bit and heaved himself back into his wheelchair, the blasted thing. Now that he could move his legs again completely, he couldn't wait for the day he could get rid of it for good. But if regaining movement had taken him years already from the first moment he started regaining _sense..._ He wasn't sure he would learn to walk again before the end of this decade. He sighed and mumbled softly, "But if I'm going to try again, I really need Cearul here..."

North got up again too, staring at his older brother with his pale emerald eyes, his head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed a bit. "Why Cearul? If it is to support you so you won't fall again, I can help instead. He's busy... _again._" But Wales shook his head, earning a soft mutter from the child which he didn't pay attention to. "You're not exactly tall enough yet, and I think not strong enough, either. I mean, I'm not exactly heavy, but you cannot support my full weight yet if I fall. And Cearul is _too_ busy lately -and as am I, mind you. I'm just doing this now to get my mind off things, and he should take a break, too. So if you'd let me through now, please..." North hesitated for a moment, then let his shoulders hang and stepped aside so Wales could get out from between the table and couch and into the hallway.

Once in the hallway, Wales took a moment to think about how numb he actually felt. He'd been happy to be able to get up again after so many years, but for not even a second he'd felt the joy he thought he would. And by now, it had faded again completely, and he was simply... numb. But so much had happened the past years, he really didn't think it strange. His life had been thrown upside down in a matter of weeks and hadn't been right again for four years. He'd been away from his home for a long time already, and after the bombings had ended he'd been in Cardiff for a few months in total, then going back to Dublin or Belfast. He just wished it could all be normal again... He shook his head, trying not to think about any of that now. It was exactly what he wanted to avoid thinking of, after all, and here he was doing it _again._ He looked to his right, where the door to Ireland's makeshift study was (originally it was the room Wales now used as a bedroom -he was now stuck in a 3 by 2 metres room where his desk barely fit), surprised at seeing it was open. Just to be sure, he looked around the corner to see if Ireland was in, but only the massive stacks of paper were on the desk, with their owner nowhere to be found. He turned around, confused, and went in the opposite direction. Then, when he passed the door to the bathroom, he heard a vaguely familiar sound, and he stopped. "Oh, dear god..." he sighed, listening for a moment to the sound of his brother, undoubtedly throwing up. "Now how did he manage-? Cearul!" He knocked on the door for a moment, but there came no answer. "Cearul? Unlock the door, please, I'm coming in whether you like it or not." There was a faint mutter and then the click of the lock turning, and without wasting a second, Wales rolled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him again. Northern Ireland didn't have to come here now, too.

For Ireland was as pale as the white tiles on the floor as he was leaning on the toilet, still gasping for breath, his blue eyes dull as he looked up at Wales. "W-what is it, Dylan...?" he asked, his voice rasping and fairly weak. "As you can see, I'm r-rather busy here..." Wales sighed and got a bit closer to him, inspecting him carefully. "Oh, Cearul... I knew you should've gone back to Dublin sooner-"

"I know, I know!" Ireland interrupted him, sounding angry. "I know very well, Dylan. 'I told you so Cearul! If only you'd listened to me!' But I was a stupid, stubborn arse, wasn't I? I didn't listen, I stayed here with the two of you and now I suffer the consequences. H-happy...?" He was barely done speaking before leaning back over the toilet and throwing up again. Wales just flinched at his words, relaxing again when he saw his brother like this, feeling a stab of pity for him. And to think, barely fifteen minutes ago he'd been impatiently waiting for Ireland to help him try to walk like he'd promised he would. When Ireland gasped for breath again, moaning in complete discomfort and curling up a little, the younger nation said softly, "Cearul, I didn't mean that..." Ireland just shook his head, waiting until he'd caught his breath again before answering, "I know... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's just..." He trailed off for a moment, then went on. "Well, if there's a fissure in my skull at this point, it wouldn't surprise me... My people are damn well torturing me and they don't even know it."

"B-but... Surely this isn't all because of-?"

Ireland shook his head before Wales could even finish. "No, no, of course not... But combine that with a stack of paperwork that, no matter how much I work, only seems to keep on growing, two brothers fighting what is probably the greatest, most dangerous war in the history of mankind and the IRA-" He stopped, averting his gaze quickly -a little too quickly, as a few seconds later, he was vomitting again. Wales narrowed his eyes and, when Ireland was finished, answered softly, "The Northern Campaign." He might as well have punched his brother in the gut now, the reaction Ireland had would've been the same either way. "Y-you know about that?" he asked hoarsely, staring up at Wales with panic in his blue eyes. Wales nodded calmly, not showing any frustration or anger -he knew Ireland had nothing to do with it, and he didn't want his big brother to think he blamed him, especially not now. "I do, and so does my government-" Ireland seemed to get even paler, though Wales doubted that was even possible. "-and _no_, Coineach doesn't know. He knows about some of the attacks, but unless he's connected them, there's no way he knows about it. And I'm very well aware that you have nothing to do with it, brother, don't worry. I'm not accusing you of anything." He then tore his gaze away from Ireland and looked at the opposite wall instead, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly before adding, "But you seriously need to go back to Dublin. It will work against the headaches, at least. You'll feel better again in no-time."

Ireland laughed dryly, giving Wales a look that clearly asked if he was crazy. "And just how do you think I'm going to get to Dublin like this? It's hours away, and I doubt I'll even make it out of Belfast in that car right now... I can't drive like this. Dylan, you were right. I should've gone sooner, 'cause now I'm stuck here and it will only get worse with the day. I was stupid..." Wales thought silently for a moment. No, if Ireland were to drive now, he would defy the laws of nature and die before they even crossed the border. Or, maybe not exactly _that_, but... Then, suddenly, the answer hit him. "I'll drive," he declared, looking down at Ireland and directly into the older nations eyes, so he would see he wasn't bluffing. "I can drive you there, Cearul, don't worry. I know my legs are too weak to stand on, but driving a car... I think I can manage that. And if not all at once, then I can manage that distance with regular breaks. Which, judging by how you look, whe would have to take, anyway." This time, Ireland only looked at him in slight... well, horror was the only word Wales could think of to describe it.

"Lad, you haven't driven a car in over-"

"-Twenty-three years. I know."

At this, Ireland promptly threw up again, and this time, Wales guessed the prospect of getting into a car that was driven by his cripple little brother who had no experience driving a car for the past two decades was the main reason. The Welshman just shrugged. "Well, it's either me or someone in the government, and you know they don't like playing taxi driver for us. God knows I know..." Ireland nodded, after which he silently waited for something. When he was sure he wouldn't throw up anymore, apparently, he flushed and slowly got up, swaying a little. "Well... thank you, lad. Now I better get back to- No, help you with-"

But Wales stopped him, holding him firmly by the wrist as he looked up at him sternly with narrowed eyes. "The only thing you need to do, Cearul, is go back to bed -no, the couch, I'm not letting you walk up the stairs in this state- and get some much-needed rest. Tomorrow morning we'll head to Dublin. Just keep hanging in there until then." He then released him, but Ireland didn't move an inch. It wasn't until his little brother said his name that the Irishman drew in a shaky breath -making Wales wonder if he'd been holding it all that time- and whispered hoarsely, "B-but Coineach... that boy can't come to Dublin. I-if he finds out about the I-IRA's recent actions... Dylan, he'll think _I _had something to do with it, a-and he... he'll hate me for sure. He can't know, Dylan, no matter what. _He must not know._"

"Taking him to Dublin won't change his chances of finding out, Cearul," Wales reassured him, feeling yet another stab of pity for his brother. The two Irish nations weren't exactly on good terms lately, anyway, and he sincerely hoped it wouldn't get any worse anytime soon. North deserved better than fighting with who he thought was his oldest brother, and the last thing Ireland needed now was to have his son hating him for something he didn't do. Not to mention Wales, and the other members of Great Britain for that matter, were all sick of the neverending battle within the family. But he shrugged those thoughts off. "Now go lie down, brother," he told Ireland. "I'll tell Coineach you're sick, you don't have to bother explaining all this to him. Then, I guess, I'll take him out for a stroll in the city or something, so you can get a proper rest. Okay? And about Allistair and Arthur... I'm sure they're okay. I have this feeling we'll hear from them soon, you'll see. Don't worry, they're fine." Ireland nodded slowly, then headed out of the bathroom, followed closely by his younger brother.

* * *

Northern Ireland didn't really know what to think as he was walking through his capital with Wales beside him. He'd known about Ireland's ever declining condition for a while now, but he'd never bothered to say anything. The older nation was a stubborn jackass sometimes, and he really had this coming for not listening to Wales sooner. But the Welshman had explained to North that Ireland had only stayed here for the child's sake, though he had indeed been rather stupid. North had only huffed, thinking about how long he'd wanted to leave Belfast already and staying here had _not_ been for his sake. But had he ever told anyone that being in his capital was about the worst thing ever if Ireland was there, too, except for Scotland? No. So on that matter, he had been stubborn as well. But it did not change the fact he was angry with Ireland. And he was angry with Wales, too. He only wanted to see England and Scotland again, that was all he wanted, but they wouldn't even tell him what they were doing right now, except that they were in France. They'd made him feel awful day in and day out, and they deserved to feel just as awful for that.

"I hate you," he mumbled softly, at first not even aware that he'd said it out loud, only realising that when Wales stopped suddenly and stared at him wide-eyed. "Wh-what did you-?" he stammered, and North was silent for a moment, shocked that he'd actually said this. Then he got tense, glaring at his brother. "I said I hate you! You and Cearul! You're keeping so many secrets from me, you hurt me all the time! You don't care about me at all, do you?! I don't care about you anymore, either! I hate you!" He spun around before Wales could say a word, ready to run away and leave Wales behind there in the streets of Belfast, but he saw someone in a flash, very close to him, lifting something- and then everything went black for a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he lay on the pavement and he heard the sound of a fight. Startled, he looked up quickly, seeing a large man towering above Wales, holding a knife to the nation's throat as he was yelling at him. Wales, seemingly not scared at all, answered with rage edging his voice. "First of all, I _have no valuable stuff _with me! Second, how can you be such a coward, attacking a child and a cripple! Why not be a man and attack someone your own size and strength?"

"Shut up!" the man roared, slashing open Wales' cheek with his knife, then digging the point of it into his throat again after that. "Just give me your money, your watch, just anything! Give it to me right now or-!" He stopped suddenly, and North, who was just getting a little less dizzy now, immediately saw why: the deep cut on Wales' cheek was beginning to heal already. Taking advantage of the human's moment of distraction, Wales grabbed him by the wrist and swatted his arms away from himself, not minding at all that the knife left a scratch on his throat, then twisted the man's arm until he dropped the weapon and even further -until a loud crack echoed through the otherwise empty street and the man yowled in pain. Northern Ireland felt as though he was frozen where he sat, staring at the scene. He'd never seen Wales fight before, not like this, and he most definitely had never seen him this enraged. The older nation punched the man in the face, causing him to lose his balance and fall, Wales dragging him to his side to fall beside the nation's wheelchair. The blond nation then pulled something North had only seen few times before in his brother's possession, and hadn't known for one second he'd taken with him -a gun. Wales held it to the human's head, who, once he opened his eyes again, looked up at the nation in pure terror. "Get away from here right now," Wales hissed at the man. "And if you try _anything_ to hurt my little brother over there, I swear _I'll fucking kill you._" The human quickly stumbled to his feet, staring at Wales for a moment, noticing with complete horror that every cut on the nation's body had healed by now, then looked at Northern Ireland, who was still on the ground. Then, suddenly, a deafening bang sounded, and Wales' gun emitted smoke as the nation glared bloody murder at the man. "GET AWAY FROM HIM!" The man, after this warning shot, wasted not a second to run away as quickly as he could.

Northern Ireland could only stare at his older brother in shock and fear, as Wales quickly put his gun away again and got closer to his little brother, holding out one hand to him. "Coineach," he began, his voice suddenly so different from what it had been a few seconds ago. "Are you alright? He hit you with that brick over there." At the last part, he nodded to a brick lying a metre away from the young nation, blood along one of the edges. But North's wound, too, seemed to have healed already now. The child didn't answer, only took his brother's hand and got to his feet again, staring at Wales with the same look of horror. Realisation slowly seeped into his mind, and he stopped breathing for a moment. He'd just declared his hatred for this man, the one that was inspecting him frantically to see if his wound had indeed healed, his green eyes only asking the same question he'd just spoken to his little brother. And for a moment, he could only think that 'I hate you' might have been the last thing he'd ever said to his dear big brother if things had gone any differently. If they had been human, it would have been. That brick to his head had been a killing blow, and if that hadn't been, then Wales would be dead by now. Tears flooded his eyes, and he'd climbed onto his brother's lap in a heartbeat, clinging to him and crying against his shoulder. He tried to speak, to say he was sorry, but he couldn't. But it was enough that Wales hugged him back and whispered to him that everything was okay, that he knew the child didn't hate him and that he'd _never_ hate North for anything. He loved his little brother dearly and nothing would ever change that.

The two then went on their way home again, North still curled up on his brother's lap and sniffling as he tried to stop himself from crying. He was such a selfish little brat sometimes, he scolded himself. Just because he was unhappy right now -and who could blame him in his situation- he'd dared say he hated his brothers and that they didn't care about him. And almost as if someone had wanted to prove to him they did, _this_ had happened right away. And he knew now, that his brothers cared more about him then their own lives, and everything they did the last few years, _everything, _had been for him.

And when they got home, a letter was waiting for them in the mailbox. Finally they had news from England and Scotland, and everything was alright. Everything was alright.

* * *

**Don't underestimate Dylan. Not even in a wheelchair.**

**Well, as for Northern Ireland... all the stress is just really getting to him, and in his case, that means he gets angry with everyone and everything for no apparent reason at all.**

**Well, thanks for reading and (as I have spring holidays now) the next chapter might not take a whole week! And please leave a review, even if it's just a wee one~ (I love that word... 'wee'. It's so cute sounding and all!)**


	10. Chapter 10

**And with this chapter, World War II comes to an end in Trouble. Yesterday I went to this amazing musical, Soldier of Orange, which was also about WWII... and it was just so beautiful. I actually became quite good at remembering dates and years when it comes to history, so when I went there with my family I had all these dates in my head like 'this battle was from then to then and resulted in this and that' and so on. But I sat down, the musical started, and I just forgot everything. History became so much more than just dates of events for a few hours. It was truly amazing.**

**If it was in any other language than Dutch, I would definitely recommend it, but... it's only in Dutch and only in one theater in the Netherlands, which was specially built for that musical, so that's not an option...**

**Well, that was my rambling for now. Crossfire, you just never cease to be amazing. Thank you for the review!**

***Warning: a lot of things happen in this chapter, so don't get confused. It might be a little bit messy. I'm sorry for that.***

**And now, without further ado...**

* * *

It wasn't until nearly a year later that Scotland and England returned home after a succesful invasion in Germany. And they didn't return alone. America was fighting Japan on the other side of the world, Canada was busy with his attempt to liberate the Netherlands. The one that the two British brothers took back with them was none other than Germany himself, battered and bruised from battle. He was even hardly conscious most of the time, but even so, he was kept in a cell by the government, who only rarely allowed any of the British nations to talk to him, even after they had explained the situation to them in full detail. "A nation is his people," England had said, clearly angry at the harsh treatment of the younger nation, even if he _was_ a prisoner. "Not his leader. And I know he may not look like it, but by our standards, he's still a kid. Hell, if such a thing existed back in the 1st century, I'd have still been in diapers at his age! At least treat him humanely, especially with what's yet to come." Then, after about a week, Scotland was allowed to stay with him for about an hour to tell him some bad news -Prussia had been defeated in battle, his capital, Königsberg, captured by the Soviet Union. Germany had only asked him if his brother was still alright or not, and Scotland hadn't been sure how to answer that. "I haven't heard anything about his death," he eventually told the prisoner. "So Russia didn't get to him. He's alive, Ludwig, though I'm not sure in what condition. But seein' as his capital was destroyed... probably not too good." After that, the German hadn't said a word anymore, though his eyes spoke more than words ever could. A silent wish for the war to be over, a desperate plea to be reunited with the brother that had raised him, the only family he knew.

Northern Ireland had tried to talk to him, but Germany hadn't even looked at him yet. But even despite this cold attitude, which was probably meant to be somewhat intimidating, North wasn't scared of him one bit. If anything, he felt sorry for the young nation. Germany was only fifty years older than himself, and though he could've been his grandfather if they had been human, being what they were they were practically of the same age. And looking at Germany now, Northern Ireland finally understood why his brothers hadn't wanted him to have anything to do with the war -for this is what it did to a nation his age. Germany had grown up way too quickly, and though he looked to be no more than nineteen at the utmost, that was still almost a decade too old for his actual age. He was wounded and weary, but most of all he was broken, inside and outside. And it was after he'd seen this that Northern Ireland decided to for once follow Ireland's example and pray, thanking the Lord and everything he could imagine that he had been spared from fighting in this war.

At the end of April, late at night, Scotland, Wales and England were on their way to Germany's cell again, and North had insisted on coming with them. Ireland was in Dublin, and North felt nothing for staying home alone all night. Because after hearing what his big brothers were about to tell Germany now, he just felt he needed to be there, too. Germany lay on his side, back turned to the bars of his cell, but the four brothers could easily tell he was wide-awake. "Ludwig," Scotland said softly, the only one in the family to adress the nation by his human name. "Ludwig, please get o'er here fer a minute, we have some important news fer ye." But the nation only sat up and looked up at the four others. "Is it about Gilbert?" he asked immediately, the first time North heard him speak, but Scotland shook his head. Germany narrowed his eyes at this, clearly frustrated and afraid, as he hadn't heard a word from his older brother since the fall of Königsberg, silently listening to what the Brits had to say. North noticed he was probably aware of it already: he had his left hand pressed to his heart as if to put pressure on a sore spot. "We've just gotten word from the front... the Soviets have reached Berlin and are ready to attack. Yer capital will get bombed, yer people will be slaughtered, an' the war will be lost. I just want ye to prepare fer it: the first time is always the hardest, but ye'll make it."

"I've lost a Vorld Var before," Germany huffed, though North noticed immediately that he was only acting cocky to mask his fear. England nodded. "I know, kid, but this is different. I felt what it is like to have your capital destroyed like your brother's was and like yours will be within days from now. It feels as if your heart get ripped from your chest, put back in and ripped away all over again. We just want you to know it is going to happen, so you'll be prepared for it." At that point, Germany jumped to his feet and stared at the older- and younger nations. "You mean it vill get vorse?" he asked, sounding terrified for once. "I-it's like I've been having a heart attack all night already! It... it vill get _vorse?_" England only gave a sad nod and sighed, telling him softly that it would get much worse yet. Germany flinched and took a step back, his eyes wide. "T-then _Bruder... Bruder..._ he..." Suddenly, Scotland tore away from the group and wordlessly marched off into the dark hallway, being stared after by the four other nations for a moment before Wales turned back to Germany and wished him good luck with what was soon to come.

"I've always wanted to meet you, you know," North blurted out out of nowhere, for reasons he didn't even know himself. Probably he was trying to change the subject, get the imprisoned nation's mind off the current situation for as long as he could. "Allistair always told really cool stories about you and your, er... your _Bruder_. He told me the two of you were strong and proud nations, and also really wonderful people once you get to know the both of you a little. I've really always wanted to meet you."

"Vell, I'm sorry for not being like your mental image of me," Germany answered, a hint of dry laughter in his voice, but also a hint of pain. But North shook his head an told him that he was _exactly _like the child had thought he was, and that he wasn't disappointed, and was very glad to have met Germany. Though the circumstances would have been different the way he'd envisioned their first meeting. Germany was silent for a moment, but then something like a smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded.

Soon after that, Scotland returned, holding a key in one hand. Wales stared at him wide-eyed as he put the key in the lock of Germany's celldoor, asking him what the hell he was doing, but Scotland didn't pay any attention. He just opened the door, went inside and closed it again. Germany looked just as shocked as the others when Scotland suddenly stood in front of him and put one hand on the young nation's shoulder. "I will... _Ich werde dich nun nicht allein lassen_. Not with the bombings starting soon." The Scot's brothers and their prisoner all stared at him in utter confusion, the Brits because they didn't speak a word German and hadn't known Scotland had started learning it, Germany because this was about the last thing he'd expected to hear. "_D-danke... Schot-_Allistair..." Scotland then turned to his younger brothers, his pale blue eyes filled with a kind of warmth Northern Ireland had never seen before. "You four go home now. I'm staying with him, but you should really go home again: it's late and... and you don't want to see this."

England and Wales both nodded, but North only kept staring at his older brother, not really understanding any of this anymore. He jumped in shock when England grabbed his hand and pulled him along, quickly called 'good luck' to Germany and a short goodbye to Scotland, allowing his older brother to take him home again after that. Perhaps he was just tired, but near the end of their visit, he just couldn't comprehend what was going on exactly anymore. He just wished the two nations in that cell would be alright the next time he saw them.

* * *

But one of them wasn't. The next morning, an exhausted Scotland came home, telling them Germany had passed out sometime that night and hadn't woken up since. He had actually wanted to stay there, but he hadn't slept all night and just had to get some rest -there were always two humans watching Germany now, and they would let the British brothers know if his condition changed, be it for the better or the worse. They would, under no circumstances, allow a fellow nation to die right under their noses. But the last days of April passed and May came, and the young nation had only been awake for a total of two days at most, his wounds only increasing in number and severity. On 2 May, the attacks on Berlin stopped, the city was captured, and Germany had to be transferred to a hospital by that time, his wounds so severe they could kill him if left untreated. Many humans working at the hospital were against they idea of treating who they had thought of as the UK's number one enemy for years, but after the four nations kept insisting they look after him, they obliged. The surgent tasked with fixing him up was the same one usually asigned to looking after any of the four members of the United Kingdom if any of them ever needed medical attention: he had studied the biology of nations from the start of his career and was without a doubt the most experienced person on that particular field in all of Great Britain. Especially working with Wales the past few years had given him experience none of his predecessors through the ages had ever had, and so the brothers trusted him blindly. They knew for sure they wouldn't have to worry about Germany for one second.

And they didn't worry anymore at all for the first time in years: Hitler was dead, the German capital captured and the Allied Forces were winning more and more battles. It was only a matter of days now before the war would finally be over. The only one to not be in the mood for celebration already was Scotland, who was checking the mailbox several times a day: they had gotten word about the fall of Berlin practically the moment it happened, they had heard about Königsberg weeks before -so why not about Prussia? Because despite the years of war, to Scotland, the Prussian was still a good friend, and he wanted to know how he was doing. This, England and Wales guessed, was probably also the reason he had wanted to look after Germany so badly -if he couldn't help his friend, then he would at least make sure his friend's brother would be okay.

On 6 May, Canada came to London as well before he would return to his homeland soon after, only a day after he liberated the Netherlands. "I've never seen people more grateful for soldiers' presence than the Dutch yesterday," he told the Brits, tired but beyond happy. "They gave us tons and tons of tulips -which is practically all they have. I take it you heard about the famine last winter? They were forced to eat tulip bulbs because there just wasn't anything else, so to me at least, it really felt like, well... it was such beautiful symbolism!" He kept on talking for a long while, telling his 'uncles' about pretty much everything he'd experienced the day he saved a fellow nation's life. Northern Ireland listened in sheer wonder, not even asking any questions, just trying his best to imagine everything as Canada spoke. "Netherlands doesn't really show much emotion," the Canadian went on. "But yesterday, when he walked up to me, he just - tears in his eyes, smiling and- I can't even describe it. He said he owes me his life... no one has ever said anything like that to me before. And his people, when we left yesterday... they have painted a thank-you message on their rooftops. It was amazing." He kept on talking for so long, he ended up repeating the same story a few times. But none of the others stopped him. It was good news, and that was something they hadn't had in much too long, and they loved every word of it.

It wasn't until 8 May that they official, unconditional surrender of the Germans was signed, and by then, the Second World War finally came to an end -though only in Europe. America still continued in his battle against Japan, the last of the Axis to still stand. But he, too, was losing, so it was a matter of time before the war would be over entirely.

* * *

A week after the German surrender, the United Kingdom had the pleasure of reuniting Germany and Prussia, who were both still weak from the great loss, but at that moment didn't seem to care about that for even a second. The moment he saw his little brother, Prussia ran towards him, limping a little but fast nonetheless, and practically jumped on him. He hugged him so tightly, the Brits almost worried all their hard work in keeping the young nation alive the past weeks had been for nothing, but his grip slackened within seconds. "_Zwei Jahre, Ludwig!_" he said, and judging by his voice he was having a hard time keeping his emotions under control. "_Fast zwei verdammte Jahre habe ich dich nicht gesehen!_ Dammit, little brother, don't you ever-!"

In a shocked whisper, Scotland translated to his brothers that the two Germans hadn't seen each other in nearly two years, which was longer than any of them had ever imagined -Wales had the closest estimation of nearly ten months or longer. They themselves had been seperated for nearly as long, of course, but at least they'd never been truly alone. North watched in silence as Prussia inspected his little brother thoroughly, apparently having to see for himself whether or not he was really okay. "V-vell, damn!" he said eventually, his voice somewhere between laughing and crying. "Y-you're actually taller than me now! Vho vould have thought... my little brother isn't my little brother anymore! I... vell, dammit... _I-ich liebe dich, Ludwig..._" Germany didn't say anything. He just hugged his older brother again, refusing to let go anymore. They may have lost the war, but at least they had each other again after months of seperation and uncertainty. And quietly, the Brits went on their way back to their plane, returning home without so much as a goodbye or anything. Neither of them had been willing to interrupt this reunion. Germany and Prussia, despite all they had done, deserved it more than anyone.

* * *

After that came celebration. After a terrible six years, the war that had terrorised everyone in Europe was now finally over. And at the start of August that year, the USA dealt two decisive blows to Japan -bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki, completely destroying both cities. On 15 August, Japan surrendered, ending the war definitively. That afternoon, England got a call from a very nervous sounding America. "But Alfred, you just ended the most terrible war in the history of mankind!" the Englishman had exclaimed when he heard how on edge the younger nation sounded. "Believe it or not, kid, I'm actually proud of you right now! Very proud, even." But with what America told him next, he turned as pale as a piece of paper, his emerald eyes filled with pure horror as he listened. His three brothers watched him in silence, waiting for the moment he'd put the phone down and tell them what was going on, which came after a few minutes of silence and a quiet 'o-okay' and 'you... you foolish-'. Pale as a corpse and his eyes wide, he turned to his brothers and opened his mouth to speak. It took a little while longer for his voice to join in the effort as well, but when it did, he shocked his brothers almost as much as he himself was. "T-the bombs he used on those cities... n-nucleair bombs? Such a weapon must _never be used again_. Each one killed thousands of people, destroyed an entire city -_one bomb!_\- a-and Japan is... J-Japan has been in a coma for nine days, ever since the first bomb, and his condition is still critical... He could die any moment. Those weapons may never be used again, it could destroy the world and kill any nation on this planet... Never again..." He then walked away, still muttering things to himself, and locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, not answering when any of his brothers tried to talk to him. And they understood: Japan and England had been good friends for a long time. Back when the whole world was against England, Japan had been the only one outside the family to even be willing to talk to him, and the other way around. And though their friendship had faded over the years, their bond remained a special one. He probably couldn't stand the thought of losing him any more than he would his brothers.

The mood darkened after this news, and the brothers didn't celebrate their victory anymore. Without complaining and without much enthusiasm either, England got to his paperwork that came with the ending of a war. All points that would one day be discussed in a treaty, punishments for the ones to have caused it and all such things. Wales, now having the time to actually do so properly, had gone back to Cardiff for professional revalidation so he would walk again soon. Scotland, finally feeling the effects of the many people he lost, had gone back home to get some rest, and Northern Ireland had gone with him. The Scot had lost a greater percentage of his people than his little brothers had, and it had gotten him quite sick. North didn't really understand that part, though. "I thought our health was linked to our economy," he asked one afternoon. "Not our people. So how can you get sick from loss of people?"

"Do ye know what different parts of our body represents, laddie?" Scotland asked him, not answering the question at all. Though confused, the child just answered with everything he knew about it -which was pretty much everything. "Our body is the land," he said, staring at Scotland as though to ask if he was right or not. "Our heart is our capital. The brain is pretty much the government and the opinions of people -and with political troubles we can get terrible headaches, as seen in Ireland a little while ago. Several organs represent... major cities?" Scotland nodded, though he added that wasn't always the case. "And our people are represented by... uh..."

"By our blood, Coineach," Scotland answered for him, patting his little brother on the shoulder. "Our people are our blood. Unimportant at first glance, but it is what keeps everything else running. Just as humans cannot live with too little blood in their veins, we cannot live without our people. Losing so many over such a short period of time gives the same effects as bloodloss -tiredness, weakness in limbs, dizziness, ye name it. It'll be over in the blink of an eye, trust me, but for now... For now, I just need to rest. Aye? No need to worry." And, reassured, Northern Ireland didn't worry anymore. There wasn't any reason to celebrate and be happy like his people, but he wouldn't be sad or angry or scared anymore, either. For the first time in years, he was happy again.

* * *

After that came a period in which it seemed Northern Ireland just didn't get any older anymore, he just remained the same age he had been when the war ended -roughly nine, perhaps a small ten-year-old. Whenever he was in Belfast, a plan his brothers had had from even before the war started, was put into practice: North was sent to a school. For four days a week he would be there, learning more English and Irish, maths, geography and history. All the other subjects, the government had decided, weren't important for him to learn now, so he wasn't allowed to 'waste time' on those, but he didn't even mind that. After his first week there, it became clear that he excelled in English and history, though his Irish (much to Ireland's silent dismay) was a little behind that of his 'peers'. He didn't particularly like maths, either, as he had to learn things he'd never even seen before, and when he asked his older brothers for help, they just read through some of the exercises he had to do, laughed nervously and put it down again, never to speak of it again. So, North decided, maths wasn't something a nation had to know per se. It wasn't important, so he wouldn't 'waste time' on it, as his government put it. They weren't so keen on that idea, however, claiming that maths was also the basics of economics, which he would learn later on and was crucial for a nation.

He didn't dislike school, but he didn't love it either. What he hated, however, was that his government always knew how to find him, even if he silently went off with Scotland or Wales or Ireland or England and stayed with them. They would always find him and, though no one ever complained about him being in another country, they never failed to send him his homework with some extra notes as he'd missed the explanation for some lessons. It was easier and thus more fun to work on than the paperwork he'd helped his brothers with sometimes, but it wasn't something he liked doing.

One day, when the whole family got together for a few days to spend some time away from work and stress (they weren't allowed to call it a holiday, as they had simply gone into the Scottish highlands without telling the governments a thing), Northern Ireland had started complaining to his brothers that _they_ had never gone to school, either, and it wasn't fair that _he_ had to go. "But when we were yer age," Scotland said, roasting a rabbit he had caught that morning above the campfire he'd made. "_This_ was all we had to learn. Catch yer meat, skin it, remove the bones an' roast it. Plant some seeds and watch it grow, learn to determine when ye can harvest yer food an' learn to clean it so't won't kill ye. Somethin' called _survival_." Wales nodded, adding: "Allistair taught me how to talk and walk and all those things, but his language lessons didn't exactly stick: I just went and created Welsh instead of speaking Scottish." Then England put in something, too. "I was lucky to have been taken in by some farmers down in a village after I was born, and that's where I learned those basics. Of course, then they realised I wasn't human and they started shunning me. Around the time they threw me out, the Romans came and killed them all... and when they couldn't kill me, they brought me to my father, the only other immortal they had ever seen. It wasn't exactly a nice time, but I learned to speak, count, write and fight with things other than a bow and arrow then. Though I ended up speaking more Latin than my own language, which wasn't exactly... ah, well."

"And I spent some years in a monastery," Ireland said, looking up at the dark sky above. "Also learned to write and read there. And of course, I still know some of the daily preaches given there by heart... things like that tend to happen when you've heard the same thing for years and years on end."

"An' they ruined ye, Old Man!" Scotland interrupted him. "Yer still wearing that bloody rosary, still pray a lot an'-"

"Oh, bugger off!" Ireland laughed, though averting his gaze as he got a little red, hardly visible through the light of the flames. "There's nothin' wrong with religion. Well, anyway, that's where I learned my basics. They tried to teach me Latin, but I couldn't care less, and eventually was the only one not to speak even a single word of it. Then they tried to convince me that God would punish me once I would die for not doing my work there properly, but... well, I'm still alive, so there's no telling if they were ever right." At this point, Northern Ireland gave up. He wouldn't be able to convince them he didn't need school, that they had been perfect teachers for over two decades and he could do it all without some human teachers bossing him around. And so he just continued going to school without complaining anymore.

Eventually, when the fire was nearly out and the brothers were ready to just curl up in their tents and be done for the day, Ireland looked at Wales with a nervous grin. "So, er, Dylan," he began slowly. "I'm just curious. How were ye plannin' to get _down_ the hill again tomorrow?" It was silent for a moment, but then Wales just shrugged. "I don't know... I think I'll just roll down the hill and we'll meet each other again at the bottom."

"Roll?" England echoed, staring at his older brother with a doubtful glance. "In your wheelchair, I hope?" But Wales shook his head, immediately protesting. "Oh, hell, no! I already said, the moment I could walk again, I'm never getting in it again! Why did you even bring it?" Scotland laughed, and Northern Ireland couldn't really figure out what kind of laugh it was, except that it wasn't one of joy or amusement. "Well, laddie... limping for a few meters at a time with not one, but _two_ canes isn't exactly, er, 'walking' in my book."

"Well then," Wales declared, huffing in mock-anger. "I'll go down the same way I came up here: little bits at a time, annoying the crap out of you all, and at that steep bit... piggyback ride from my dear big brother. And with that, I mean you, Allistair. You're the one who insisted we go hiking instead of going somewhere a little more accesible for me."

"Oh joy, I'm lookin' forward to it already," Scotland said dryly, getting to his feet then, telling his brothers that he was off to bed now, but before he could leave, England stopped him. There was no trace of the joy and laughter of that day left in his emerald eyes as he, too, got up and went to stand in front of Scotland. "A-Allistair, I... I actually didn't want to show you this today... I don't want to ruin this day for you, but I... I just thought you..." He trailed off, sighing and fumbling in one of his pockets, taking out a small, folded piece of paper. He hesitated for a moment, then handed it to his brother. "I-it's one of the laws of the Allied Control Council, which will come into effect early next year... L-law 46..." Scotland read it silently, his eyes growing wide as he did. After mere seconds, pure rage burned in his pale blue irisses, and the red glow from the flames only seemed to amplify the look of anger. His lips moved, speaking the words on paper with a soundless voice, and North could only just make out the words 'ceased to exist'. Then, wordlessly, he crumpled the note and threw it in the fire, walking away without even looking at any of his brothers.

Northern Ireland didn't know what was on the paper, and since it upset Scotland like this, he didn't want to know. He silently watched as his big brother walked away, not even going into one of the three tents but just out into the forest, depsite the cold winter air of January. He then looked at his other brothers, and saw the same emotion he felt in their eyes. He knew they didn't need one, but to North, this was the first reminder that true peace and happiness just never lasted.

* * *

**Well, except for the Allied Control Council laws in 1947, which will be the next chapter, this concludes the war in this fic. Next up is the build-up to the Troubles.**

**Thanks you so so much for reading and (*puppy-dog eyes*) please leave a review?**


	11. Chapter 11

**Ah, this was a sad chapter to write... Especially since this day was exactly 68 years (and three days) ago from now...**

**Kawaz and Crossfire, thanks so much for the reviews! and Crossfire, also a thank you for being nitpicky on my German: I corrected it just now. If I made any mistakes here too, please tell me! And darn, German grammar is so hard indeed! My listening and reading comprehension of the language is above average in my year, but grammar keeps on knocking my grades down again -_-'**

**Well, anyway, fans of the German bros might indeed want to get their tissues ready.**

* * *

The day Scotland had loathed for so long finally came on February 25, 1947. Two days prior, the United Kingdom had traveled to Germany for a meeting of the Allied Control Council and the passing of several laws created by it. England and Wales nearly had to drag him into the plane, while Scotland protested loudly against it, stating he would have no part in this cruelty. Only when they had threatened to inform the prime minister (with whom Scotland couldn't exactly get along) did he get into the plane, however unwilling.

"I'm not signing that devil's law," he muttered now, as Russia stepped forward and signed it, followed by the Marshal of the Soviet Union, Sokolovsky. Then came America, and his representator, Clay. France and his representator were third to sign it, and then it was the UK's turn. England sighed and, though also not too enthusiatically, signed it. "You won't have to, Allistair. My signature and that of mr Robertson should suffice." When he walked back to his older brother, he tried again to tell him he wasn't happy about it, either, but Scotland looked away and wouldn't listen.

Minutes after the signing of the law, they moved to the main hall of the Allied Control Council, where the law would be declared official soon. The Allies, nation and human, took place in their chairs, waiting for the German brothers to be brought in as well. Upon sitting down, Wales let out a relieved sigh and whispered to his brothers, "I'm telling you, one more minute up on my feet and my knees would've given up. I don't mind being here, but... if only they worked a little faster sometimes."

"Shut up!" Scotland hissed back under his breath. "So you want this to be done _sooner?_ Oh, yeah, the sooner we're rid of this 'pest', the better, isn't it?!" Wales flinched, protesting in a whisper, "Al, that's not what I-! Never mind. I understand you're angry, Al, but we had _nothing _to do with this. We're all on the same side here." But England sighed then, placing a hand on Wales' shoulder and saying softly, "Just let him be for now. In his position, I would be angry, too. And it _was_ a bit of a poor choice of words there, brother." Wales remained silent, as right then, the door opened and Germany and Prussia were brought in. England scowled when he noticed their hands were cuffed behind their backs, but he quickly grabbed Scotland by the wrist and stopped him from getting up in sheer anger.

Then, America got up and started speaking. "Germany and Free State Prussia, you were brought here today to witness the passing of Law No. 46 of the Allied Control Council and to further discuss the military occupation of the German Reich hereafter." Germany looked a little nervous as the older nation spoke, and Prussia looked at him, whispering something to his little brother, no doubt words of reassurance. America paid this no mind and continued speaking, as was his duty today. "To begin with the law, signed by Marie-Pierre Koenig, Général d'Armée of France and his nation, Vasily Sokolovsky, Marshal of the Soviet Union and his nation, Lucius D. Clay for Joseph T. McNarney, General of the US army and his nation, and B. H. Robertson for Sholto Douglas, Marshal of the Royal Air Force and his nations.  
The Allied Control Council hereby declares that from this day, Februari 25 1947, onward, the Prussian State which from early days has been a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany has de facto ceased to exist."

His words dropped like a bomb in the massive room, and a heavy silence followed. Scotland forced himself to look at Prussia -_former_ Prussia- now, and regretted his decision the moment he made it. His albino friend looked as if he could crumble any moment, his eyes wide as he looked up at America, his expression unreadible. America spoke further, reciting the words of the official document, but his words were hardly heard by Scotland, and the Scot guessed Prussia wasn't listening anymore, either. "Guided by the interests of preservation of peace and security of peoples and..."

Barely two minutes passed before the American was done speaking, but it had felt like a small eternity. When America stepped back, Germany said softly, his voice echoing through the room, "I-I'm sorry, but I... I'm afraid I don't quite understand... Prussia is-"

"It means, young man," Sokolovsky said, looking down at Germany with expressionless eyes, "that mr Beilschmidt is no longer a nation. He is to not be refered to as Prussia anymore by you, or anyone. As the young nation here just said, Free State Prussia has ceased to exist."

Germany immediately looked at his older brother beside him, almost as if to make sure he was still there and hadn't faded into nothingness where he stood, but the former nation was still there, motionless and silent. "_Nein!_" the young nation exclaimed, trying to get to his brother but being held back by two humans. "_N-nein, das-das konnt ihr nicht... DAS KÖNNT IHR NICHT MACHEN! Bruder-! Gilbert!"_ When he heard his little brother calling out to him like that, the albino seemed to be shaken out of his trance, and he quickly turned to Germany, grinning at him. "It's okay, Ludwig," he said, his voice wavering and his lips trembling as he forced himself te keep grinning, stating the complete opposite of his words. "It's okay. Your _Bruder _is too awezome to... to disappear... you know zhat...! It vill be okay... completely fine..."

"Zhis isn't zhe time for your stupid jokes, Gilbert!" Germany yelled at him, distraught. "Stop it vith your 'awezome' for once! Zhey just-! _Zhey just abolished you!_" Gilbert nodded slowly, answering in a whisper, "I know... I know... it vill be alright... I know it vill...", then averting his gaze and looking down at the floor instead. He knew it just fine, but he didn' _feel _it yet. He still existed, right? He was alive, he was breathing, his heart was pounding painfully against his ribs -_he was alive_. So how could he be dead at the same time? Nonexistent, just a memory at this point in time. It was simply impossible. And Scotland felt exactly the same way, and knew the others did, too. Scotland, at least, had come here expecting to see his friend die today, yet here he still was. Something must've gone wrong. Prussia wasn't abolished, he was standing there, right in front of him. Something must've gone horribly, wonderfully wrong.

England then got up, quickly saying, "However, Gilbert Beilschmidt will not disappear, as he just said. Though no longer as Prussia, you will be allowed to live on as a nation for some time at least -as East Germany. The current Germany will represent West Germany from now on, and you will both be under military occupation of the Allied Forces for indefinite time." When England finished speaking what was meant to be words of comfort, the truth finally seemed to dawn on the former Prussia, and he exclaimed suddenly, "F-for my _militarism?!_ Vhat a stupid reason to just _abolish me!_ If it vas truly for the vars I fought zhat I am no longer allowed to exist, zhen _all of you_ should be abolished, too!" France sighed, answering, "It is not like zhat, _mon ami_. We all 'ave fought wars, I will not deny zhat. But you are still different from all of us in one respect: you're an army with a nation, instead of a nation with an army. You were born for war, and we cannot allow zhat any longer." Germany took a startled step back as his older brother yelled at the other nations again, enraged and scared to death at the same time. "Y-you can't just do zhis! I-I'm _Prussia,_ and nothing else! I-in my 758 years of life, z-zhe only ozher identity I've ever had vas zhe Order of Teutonic Knights. I'm German, but I'm not _Germany_! And I am definitely not _East Germany!_ V-vhat is zhis... zhis sick joke!"

"It's not a joke, Gilbert," Scotland said softly, suprising his brothers and the two German nations with it. "I wish it was, but it isn't. You're now East Germany, under military occupation of the Soviet Union. I'm sorry, Gilbert, but that's how it is."

"Speaking of which," Russia said, getting to his feet slowly. "I believe it is time we all have a word with our new terri- _temporary _territories, _nyet?_ East, you're coming with me. West can tag along with the UK, USA and France." He approached the newly named East Germany with a tiny smirk, but the albino wouldn't even let him come close. The moment Russia was within reach, he gave him a full-force roundhouse kick to the stomach -or meant to. Russia stepped aside swiftly, caught the albino's raised leg and lifted him off the floor as though he weighed less than even a feather. He then smashed the man against the floor, dropping him like a ragdoll, and East Germany landed headfirst onto the marble, the impact knocking the breath out of his lungs. As he lay gasping for breath, Russia knelt down beside him and hauled him up by the collar of his shirt. "Now, now, I knew I would have to teach you some manners," he spoke to him, hatred dripping from his voice. "But I never once thought your case would be this bad. No matter, I'm an expert at teaching people like you some _discipline._" He got up and pulled the albino, who was still gasping for breath (England almost feared he had a collapsed lung from the impact with the floor), to his feet as well and dragged him along into one of the smaller offices down the hall. West Germany stared after them with wide blue eyes and a confused expression: he clearly didn't comprehend all that had happened in the past few minutes. And who could blame him? He was then taken by the other Allies to an office room next to the one Russia and his brother were in.

* * *

They were done explaining things quickly, as the young German never interrupted them and asked not even one question. He just sat there, silently staring at the wall and only nodding from time to time. The other nations even wondered if he was listening to them or not, but it didn't really matter. All that he had missed now, they could tell him again. Eventually, Wales sighed, mumbling, "Prussia isn't even a thousand years old? I thought he was almost our age," he added as he looked at England, who nodded, agreeing. That was the first moment West Germany spoke since they came into this room, his voice soft and hoarse. "He is often zhought to be older by ozher nations because of his military skills. But he vas like zhat from the moment he was born. France vas right: he vas born from an army... the Teutonic Knights in the 12th century." After that, he was silent again, his eyes expressionless as he stared at the floor. France was about to say something, but he was cut off before he could speak more than one syllable.

Because suddenly, an agonised screech echoed through the building, and all the nations were alert in a heartbeat, staring at the door and wondering what had happened. Especially West Germany looked terrified and shocked, and he jumped to his feet, trying to run to the door but being held back by America and France. "Z-zhat vas Gilbert!" he yelled at them, trying desperately to free himself. "_Das war meinem Bruder!_" France and America, who had apparently stopped West Germany instinctively, let go of him again and ran out the door, followed closely by the other nations. Wales, who had been a bit slower to get to his feet, followed slower as well: he'd been standing and walking around too much that day already, as he couldn't walk for longer than ten minutes yet. England helped him, and for that, they were the last people to walk into the office next to the one they'd been in, stumbling upon a surprisingly gruesome, nerve-wrecking scene.

The fireplace in that office was filled with flames, the only source of light in the room, the red and orange shimmer giving an eerie effect to what they saw: Russia was towering over East Germany, who sat curled up on the floor, his shirt open and his arms pressed to his chest. His breathing came in shallow, rasping gasps, squeaking a bit in sheer pain. He sat with his back turned to the other nations, but even so, they knew what had happened. In Russia's left hand was a metal object, the end of it glowing white and red, just out of the fire. Apparently, he had _branded _East Germany. The nations that had run into the room just now were frozen in shock for a moment as the wounded albino tried to say something, and Russia only yelled at him in Russian, then kicked him in the head. The albino was swung headfirst against the wall, lying unconsciously on the floor after that. Whether the kick or the impact with the wall had caused him to lose consciousness, no one knew, but it was the one thing needed to get everyone out of their petrified state.

_"You sick bastard!" _Scotland roared, practically jumping Russia. The younger nation tried to defend himself, but in his rage, the Scot was too quick, knocking Russia to the floor and punching him in the face two, three times before America managed to pull him off the other nation again. But the American, too, was enraged, and demanded loudly, "Why the _fucking hell_ would you do that, Ivan?!"

Russia just smirked and shrugged. "He didn't accept the fact that he's under my authority now," he said. "Didn't want to accept that his little capital -or what's left of it anyway- is now _my_ city. I just gave him a permanent reminder that his heart, for as long as it still beats, belongs to the USSR and that he should listen to me from now on. His freedom is gone forever." America and Scotland looked at the part Russia had used to brand East Germany with, the shape of it now visible as it was cooling down -the symbol of the Soviet Union. "That's _sick_," America muttered as he let go of Scotland again. "Absolutely _sick._" They then turned to look at the two Germanies, the younger of which was on his knees beside his unconscious older brother, trying to wake him up.

"G-Gilbert, c-come one... v-vake up...!" he tried desperately, but with his hands still tied behind his back, his efforts were fruitless. France was beside him as well, inspecting East Germany closely for a moment then sighing. "'E needs 'elp," he said softly. "If not for zhe burn, zhen for 'is 'ead, but 'e needs 'elp." Scotland scowled, getting up and pushing France aside, muttering to him, "Then for Heaven's sake, stop just sayin' so an' _actually do some'in!_" He then picked up East Germany and, with him limp in his arms, walked out of the room without looking back or saying even a single word more. Northern Ireland, who was trembling in fear at what he'd just seen, squeaked that he would help, too, and quickly ran after him.

"Allistair!" the child asked, terrified, as he caught up to his brother, who was walking through the hallway with quick paces -on his short legs, North had to run to keep up with him. "Allistair, will he... will he be okay?" But Scotland didn't answer, and so the child tried something else. "Why did Russia do that?" Still no answer, and Scotland just went into a room North had seen only once before, when he'd cut himself accidentally when in here and the small cut got disinfected. This was where, in case of an emergency, the humans had stored medical alcohol, bandages and all such things. And this was an emergency if North had ever seen one. Because when he looked to his side at the unconscious albino in his brother's arms, he saw some strands of his white hair were sticky and crimson by now, blood trickling down the side of his face. Scotland just lay the former Prussian down on the table in the middle of the room, quickly asking for North to close the door behind him as he was rummaging through a drawer to find the supplies he needed. Northern Ireland silently followed his instructions, then asked if there was any way he could help. So quickly North could hardly comprehend it, the Scot answered, "You could take off his shirt: I also want to have a look at his shoulders and back after what happened in the main hall earlier today. Northern Ireland just nodded and got to work.

The fresh burn Russia had just given the albino was a dark red and even brownish, the skin having the gruesome appearance of partially melted flesh, and North felt sick to the stomach just looking at it. But it wasn't the only burn or scar on the nation's body: several old battlescars were on his chest and abdomen, old burns along his side and left shoulder. The pale skin, which looked so _flawless _on every piece of it that was usually visible -hands, neck, face- was marred with proof of his many years of battle. "Allistair..." North whispered, the only thing he could think of now. "Al..." Scotland then turned to the two younger nations, disinfectant in one hand and bandages in the other. "I couldn't find anything to stitch him up if necessary," he said. "So let's hope that cut in his head isn't too -shit." He stopped when he, too, saw the many scars on his friend's body, but quickly shook his head and sat down, searching for the cut on the nation's head. "Coineach, laddie, would ye please press some wet cloth to that burn? Don't make it too cold... Yeah, like that, good job..."

As his brother was working on cleaning then closing the cut on East Germany's head, North quietly inspected said nation a bit. He was unlike anything he'd ever seen, quite unlike what he'd expected when Scotland had described him once. He'd seen him once before, but that had only been a glimpse, back when they reunited him with his little brother. He was even paler by nature than he thought, and he'd never seen someone this young with white hair. Scotland also told him he, like most albinoes, had red eyes, but Northern Ireland had never seen them up close yet, so he wasn't sure. All in all, he had an almost ghostly appearance, something that got North nervous and fidgety just by looking at it. He didn't want to be scared of him, but after a few minutes, he just had to admit to himself that he was, for no reason at all.

He nearly jumped in shock when East Germany groaned a bit and blinked open his eyes (and when he saw they were indeed crimson red, North gulped and took a step back), looking up at Scotland. "_S-Schottland..._" he rasped softly, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly before speaking again. "Al... vhat-? Vhat's going on...?" He then seemed to remember, because he was up in a sitting position within a heartbeat, his eyes wide. "_Oh Gott, Ludwig-!_ I-is Ludwig alr- _agh!_" He flinched then and pressed one hand to his head, and Scotland took the oppertunity to give his shoulder a quick glance -only some bruises, so that was okay. "Ludwig is fine," he then said to his friend, trying to calm him down and get him to lie down again. "He's only worried about ye. An' to be frank, so am I. Take it easy fer now, aye? That bastard hit ye good..." East Germany nodded slowly, closing his eyes again. "He has reason to hate me," he sighed eventually. "I don't really blame him for zhat... But zhis vent too far, r-right? Z-zhis isn't a common punishment for var, is it...?" Scotland only shook his head.

"Are ye okay, Gilbert?" he asked after a short silence, and the albino nation laughed dryly. "Ah, I'm used to vorse. Given some time, I'll be just fine again!"

"I didn't mean _this_, I meant... _are ye okay?_"

East Germany remained silent for a little while after this, opening his eyes again and looking up at his Scottish friend. Then, slowly, he shook his head, his lips forming the word 'no' but his voice not joining in the effort. He gritted his teeth, his voice barely above a whisper as he ranted, "Z-zhey took my identity, my entire life, vith mere vords! I-I _felt _it, Al, I felt how zhey... how zhey ended my existence as Prussia... It felt so empty, a-as if zhe whole vorld vas gone in a second! As if _I _vas gone..." He breathed in sharply when a jolt of pain seemed to pass through his body, so strongly North could almost _see_ it go, then went on, "A-and now zhey zhink it vill be okay if zhey let me live on as a shitty country vith a shitty name like _East Germany_ and a shitty position as Russia's goddamn lackey! Vell, _fuck zhem!_ Zhey _killed me_ today, Allistair, zhey _killed me_ and I'm _dead._ A ghost... a mere ghost of vhat I used to be..." It was silent after that, the silence growing heavier with the minute. For a moment, Northern Ireland wondered if East Germany had passed out or ust fallen asleep again, but then the albino spoke one last time, "If for vhatever reason, Allistair, I'm not able to look after Ludwig vhen he needs me," he rasped weakly, clearly just seconds away from drifting off again. "Please take my place as his big _Bruder_ for me... He's so young... he can't live completely alone yet. I don't vant him to be alone. Loneliness... it hurts... Please, spare him zhat pain if you can, and I can't..."

"I promise, Gilbert_,_" Scotland answered softly, calm but his voice full of emotion. "My own wee brother here is the witness to this... I swear on my life, Gilbert, if Ludwig ever needs ye and ye can't be there for him anymore, I'll treat him like my own lil' brother an' take care o'him to the best of my abilities. I promise." East Germany smiled, thanked him softly, then fell asleep, unconscious again. Northern Ireland stared at him for a little while, then at Scotland. What did the two older nations know that he didn't? Why had Scotland spoken as if his friend would die soon? A nation... a nation couldn't die. They were immortal, and Prussia -though now as East Germany- was still a nation. Suddenly, the child was picked up by his older brother, who held him like he was still a small kid, but for once, North didn't mind. "C'mon, laddie," Scotland whispered to him. "Let's get out o'here, let the man sleep... he's had the toughest day of his life just now, I think..." And as he was carried out of the room by his big brother, Northern Ireland finally understood why Scotland had hated this day so much -it was by far the most unfair thing he'd ever witnessed. "I'll call him Prussia," he mumbled against his brother's shoulder, getting sleepy. He wasn't sure, but it must have been near midnight at that point. "I'll still call him Prussia forever..." But Scotland shook his head and answered softly that he couldn't: Prussia was gone forever.

* * *

**Ah, I'm so sorry. I just hate Prussia's dissolution, but angst is easy to write for me (hence the fact this chapter was done so quickly)... for whatever reason.**

**So from now on, Germany will be called West (Germany) and Prussia East (Germany). I didn't do so in this chapter yet, but I'm pretty sure I will use the short versions of their new names, like I did with North's. (See? Doing it again... *sigh*)**

**Well, I hope the next chapter will be done quickly, too, but school is starting again in two days (*crying a river*), so I'm not sure. Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**First of all, I might not be able to write this weekend, and I hardly write during the week (blame school) so the next chapter might take a little while longer than usual. And then some random information: the reason I won't be able to write this weekend is because, on Saturday, I'll be going to my first open day of a university _ever_. I'm excited but terrified. Hell, I don't want to grow up. I don't want responsibilities like that yet, I don't... I just can't. I really can't.**

**So I'm panicking a little here. Or more than a little, whatever.**

**Crossfire, as usual, thank you so, so much for that review. You really know how to make a writer happy. And Kawaz! Thanks for the favourites!**

**Now, in this chapter I tried to mix everything a bit: angst with fluff with humour... though the latter not so much as the others. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it.**

**Hetalia is not mine.**

* * *

The moment they were out of Germany, or actually even when they were still in a their plane back home, Northern Ireland had declared he wanted to go to Ireland again. Not long, just a week or so, but he really wanted to be there now, for reasons he didn't understand. But after everything that had happened and everything he'd seen, Ireland felt like a safe, peaceful place now.

So early in the afternoon two days after they got back, Wales dropped him off there before going back to Cardiff, only staying for roughly five minutes before he left again. Northern Ireland just sat on the couch, tense and silent, and Ireland went to sit beside him after saying goodbye to his little brother. "So is there any special reason ye wanted t'come here, Coineach?" he asked softly, but North remained silent. He folded his hands into fists, though, raising his shoulders a little. After a minute of silence like this, when Ireland simply put an arm around the kid's shoulder, he just started crying. "W-what they did was so cruel!" he sobbed against his brother's shoulder. "So unfair!" Ireland didn't say anything, just held him, and then North knew why he had wanted to come here: his oldest brother always knew how to comfort him, despite their fallouts. "I hate them for what they did, I really do!" North muttered eventually between the sobs. "America, France and Russia... they're cruel and mean!"

"They're not," Ireland answered softly, stroking his little brother's head. "Really, dear, they're not. America is young an' fairly unexperienced, he wouldn't know what dissolution does to a nation. France is one o'Pruss- East Germany's best friends, I'm sure 't hurt to have to do this. Russia... Russia is also young, an' mostly misguided by his leaders. He's gone through two horrible revolutions in one year time during WWI, then a complete reform to communism, then he made a pact with Germany to not have to participate in WWII -only to be betrayed by them an' invaded, anyway. I dun'think he's even able to think clearly with everything that happened and is still happening in his country. What he did, for all I heard, was wrong... but not too surprising." North sniffled a bit, trying to silence himself, but huffed when Ireland said this. Why couldn't people just go along with his opinions on others, even if just for a moment? Why couldn't anyone share his hatred, if only for a few seconds? But he knew that would be wrong: Ireland was right, after all, there was no reason to hate any of them. "But I still don't like them for what they did," he mumbled then, biting his lip to stop himself from crying.

"And why is that?"

"They seperated East and West! W-West is young, he deserves -he_ needs_ to have his big brother with him now! I-I know I w-would... But they se-seperated them a-and that's unfair! And A-Al told me that, i-if Germany ever gets reunified, the ch-chance East will die i-is... almost c-certain. So then, when West finally has his b-big brother again, he will lose him again, too! That's so cruel..." Ireland only nodded and didn't answer to this, as North was going on already. "Don't they know what having big brothers is like? Everyone deserves to have one, and taking one away from someone is so _wrong_."

"France doesn't," Ireland answered softly. "_He _is the 'big brother of Europe', according to himself." He laughed softly, then added, "Though, age-wise, that would be yers truly here. Anyway, America had all of us, though he viewed us more as uncles an' Artie as his father. Russia has his older sister, Ukraine. However, they all know what it's like, an' I think they feel bad for West and East, too. They're not monsters, Coineach, just remember that." Northern Ireland was silent after that. He never said they were monsters! Or had he? Is that what it had sounded like? He just leaned against Ireland for a moment, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time, then let go of his older brother again and looked up at him, sniffling from time to time. But when he saw the warm smile Ireland looked at him with, he tilted his head and asked if something was wrong, because that look, for all it's warmth, was getting a little unnerving. Ireland only laughed and looked away. "N-no, of course not... sorry. It's just... yer such an amazing kid, ye know that?"

North blinked at him, surprised and confused. "W-why...?"

"Because of how much ye care 'bout others," was all Ireland said, until he saw North's pale green eyes, still filled with confusement, if not more. Then he smiled again and explained, "This -what happened to West and East- has nothing to do with ye, kid, an' yet here y'are, worryin' about them like they were yer family... yer brothers or cousins..." He sighed then, looking away, out the window. "Many children yer age are selfish -they don't know that they are, but their world still revolves around only them, an' with a bit o'luck, their parents an' siblings. But ye, Coineach, ye care about the world. That's what makes ye so amazing. An' I'm proud of ye, lad."

Northern Ireland only mumbled a quick, soft "Thanks", then sat silently, staring at the floor. After two minutes passed like that, Ireland got up, saying he would pour the two of them some tea or coffee, but North quickly grabbed him by the wrist and stopped him. "Wait, Cearul-!" He didn't know exactly why he stopped his brother, but he wanted him to stay here now. Ireland only blinked at him, waiting for what else North had to say, and the child quickly made up something -he didn't want to seem weak, and he'd just been crying for minutes on end, after all. "Y-you never really told me... what was mom like?" The older Irishman stared down at his little brother for a while, then stuttered, "M-my mother...? Well, the way I knew her, she was kind and warm and caring... but she was different to everyone. Each person has their own perception and their own opinions, after all." He sat down again, his eyes wide and his expression blank. Of all things North could have asked, this was the last thing he'd expected, and he hadn't been prepared for it one bit. "The years I was alone with her are a bit of a blur to me. That was over two thousand years ago, after all, and I was maybe four or five when Allistair was born. But she would always take me with her, even when she went hunting. I didn't have a father t'look after us, an' no one else to look after me when she was gone huntin', so she had no choice, really. An' at night, she would sing me a lullaby to get me to sleep -became a family thing, as ye've noticed." North nodded: he remembered all four of his brothers singing him to sleep when he was a baby or a young toddler. Sometimes they still did, but North didn't really want them to anymore, as it was something for little kids.

"Then when she got pregnant with Al," Ireland went on, "things were a bit harder. I was too young to go out looking for food on my own, an' though she managed in the first months, when Al got a lil' too heavy to carry around for miles... We ended up havin' a bit of a food problem then. But even when she got to the point she could give birth any moment, she'd always make sure I ate first -if at all. I didn't know that was unhealthy for her yet, otherwise I'd have never let her, but..." He smiled again, warmly, but another kind of warmth than when he'd smiled at North earlier -the nostalgic kind he always had when talking about his youth or that of any his younger brothers except North. "She always put her children first, no matter what. I don't know how people outside the family thought of her other than positive, but as her son, she was the most amazing person in the world to me."

"I wish I could've met her," North sighed, leaning sidewards against Ireland's shoulder and closing his eyes. "She sounds like a great mom..."

"Maybe one day ye will," Ireland answered softly, his voice sounding far away to Northern Ireland. "Maybe one day, in yer dreams... I still see her sometimes, feel her near me, an' I know the others do, too. Even Artie, even though he's never met her in life, like ye." North nodded slowly, relaxing completely. Now this was what he'd missed -lying against his oldest brother, practically falling asleep there. Back when he was still only a year or two old, Ireland had been the one he loved to be with most. He was most comfortable falling asleep in his arms and hearing his voice when he was scared. All that, he guessed, was because Ireland had been the one to find him minutes after he was born, raising him in his first months. And no matter what happened between the two of them, he knew he could always come back here and restore his relationship with his brother and continue like they always did. And he loved that. He loved that so much...

Ireland waited until North fell asleep against his shoulder out of sheer exhaustion, then gently picked him up and brought him to his bedroom. There, he softly put the child in bed, puling the covers over his small body, then knelt down beside him, looking at him for a moment. His expression was one of complete comfort and happiness, if not for the tearstains still visible on his cheeks. The Irishman sighed, stroking the child through his soft, dark ginger hair again. "Yer like mum, y'know," he whispered to him. "Caring more for others than yerself. A much better person than I am... I'm selfish." He stopped stroking him now, holding his hand still on the sleeping boy's cheek. "I'm selfish," he repeated, "'cause ye have no idea how much I wish ye just lived here with me... How much I want to tell ye that yer not my lil' brother at all, truth or not... How much I want to tell ye everythin' I've kept secret for so long, finally be rid o'this constant pain in my heart, even if it means tearing apart yer entire world. I won't, I promise I won't, but I _wish_-" He stopped for a moment, taking in a shaky breath before going on, his voice hardly audible. "I wish I could have kept ye safe, lad. That I could've prevented ye from experiencing all the horrors ye've seen, that I could have been yer safe haven... where ye truly felt safe and happy, instead of the years ye spent here during the war... I wish ye could remain innocent for so much longer." Tears were pricking in the corners of his eyes by now, and he blinked them away. He wouldn't cry, not in front of Northern Ireland, even if the boy was asleep. "I had hoped letting ye grow up as our brother would make ye happy," he then whispered, sighing again. "But now, I wonder if things would've been different -_better_\- for ye if I'd chosen to be yer father from day one instead. But wouldn't that be what's best for _me_, and not ye? I'm selfish like that... I'm sorry, lad. Ye deserve better than this... better than me." He then got up and walked out of the room again, as silently as he could. The most pathetic part of it all, he thought, was how he wasn't even sure what North was to him: he had nothing to prove he was the boy's father, but nothing to disprove it, either. It was a mystery he had yet to solve, and sometimes he wondered if he ever would. His heart kept on telling him the boy was his, but his mind... His mind would tell him there was no way of knowing, and then he would only think about how unbelievable it was. A parent that didn't know if a child was his or not? And so, his mind said he _couldn't_ be North's father: he would know if he was, instead of living in constant uncertainty. At least, he told himself, Northern Ireland's world was clear as day: he had four older brothers, and that was all he knew and all he had to know. And that at least was a good, a wonderful thing. Even though it might well be a lie.

* * *

England was busy. He had no other word for it: he was just incredibly, infuriatingly busy. He still had to work on restoring several things in his own country and the rest of the UK, the Allied Control Council just kept on creating new laws and taking new measures to ensure peace, and not even two years ago, the United Nations had been created, hoping for better international co-operation. And aside from that, he was now in control of a not too small piece of West Germany. And as if all that wasn't enough to worry about: decolonisation came. The Empire was falling apart, and though the effects of it weren't too strong yet as it was only starting, they were there.

Not only was he busy, his health was... nonexistent. Britain was, essentially, bankrupt, 'kept alive' only by the massive loan from the US, which of course they would have to pay off one day. Really, it wasn't that much worse than after WWI, but this time, there was just so much more work to do. And not to mention the fact Great Britain had hardly been damaged in the first war, but in the latest one, London had been bombed along with other major cities. He was still recovering from all that, and now... Now he had to work day and night, sometimes staying up all night without even noticing the sun rising after several hours. There was so much to be done, too much, and his government just kept drowning him in paperwork and meetings everytime he thought he was nearly done. He was beginning to think that, to him personally, the UN was a death sentence: no matter how miserable his state, he had to travel through Europe, go to a meeting in Germany, then a meeting in France... At one point he'd been told to go to one of his colonies, India, and he'd simply refused to. International co-operation might be the saviour of the world, the one thing to prevent another massacre like the World Wars, but if he didn't get some time off soon, it would be the death of him.

It was the third evening that week that he was working late -the third evening after he'd come home from Germany, also- and there was simply a _mountain_ of documents of several things in front of him. He was reading through a report on something he didn't even understand anymore, shaking from head to toes with a raging fever and coughing up his lungs every few minutes, hadn't even eaten yet and felt plain _miserable._ He had a meeting in two days and he knew that if he didn't rest tomorrow, he wouldn't even make it. So he _had _to keep working now so he could take it easy the next day -relatively easy, at least. But as the words kept dancing over the paper, the only thing he could think about was how, miraculously, his head hadn't exploded yet. It certainly felt like it would. "Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, on the verge of tears in sheer pain, exhaustion, discomfort and desperation. "Bloody fucking hell... I'll never get this done..." But he had to, he kept telling himself. He had to, or he wouldn't make it to the meeting...

Right then, the phone rang, and with a sigh he picked it up, expecting more work to be thrown his way, or the meeting being tomorrow already instead of in two days. He muttered a greeting, trying to sound normal, but his frustration was clearly audible. "_Ah, Angleterre, c'est moi_," came the familiar voice of France, annoying England to no end. What was the git calling for now? That he had to be in France in a few days? Some stupid UN meeting he hadn't known about? But no, none of that. "I just zhought I'd check up on you, _mon cher,_" the Frenchman continued, with that godawful accent of his which England just really couldn't stand right now. "A few days ago in Germany, you didn't look so well... so 'ow are you?"

England sighed. Idle chit-chat. Another thing he just couldn't stand now. In fact, he thought, pretty much anything was unbearable at the moment. "Very busy," he answered. "And tired. And with a government that seems to want me dead, because frankly, I'm sick, and not just a little and yet they still treat me like I'm a machine. So please, would you go bother somebody else?"

There was a disapproving grunt on the other side of the line, and England cringed: to his aching head, it had sounded like a roaring lion, or something equally loud. "Arthur, just take a break, _oui?_ If you really are sick -and I can 'ear you are from your voice- you should get some rest. Zhe government will understand, will zhey not? Take care of yourself."

"France-" England tried to interrupt him, but the older nation just went on without a pause. His voice was ringing in the Englishman's ears, growing louder and louder even though he was speaking at the same volume all the time. And it just _hurt so bad._

"Are you even sharing zhe work? _Tes freres_ are capable of working, too, you know. Don't do everything by yourself. In fact, if zhey are 'ealthier zhan you right now, just give zhe work to your brothers and take some time off! You really 'ave to-"

"I can't share the work with them now!" England interrupted him again, this time raising his own voice so he wouldn't be ignored. "Dylan is still busy with revalidation and all that, and Allistair-... He's still... I don't want to give him too much work yet, after what happened on the 25th." At that moment, his stomach twisted painfully and he wouldn't have been surprised if his head finally exploded, and he leaned on his desk with his forehead. Wood shouldn't be that cold, he thought vaguely. His temperature must've risen again. That didn't really surprise him, either, but he was really at his breaking point now. "Oh _fucking-_...! I'm dying, France! I'm bloody dying, I just know I am!" He curled up in his chair, somehow having the willpower to stay on the phone. Or perhaps, though he thought it very unlikely, he just liked being able to talk to someone right now, even if it_ was_ France.

"_Mon petit lapin_-"

"And don't you call me your 'little bunny', arse! It makes no fucking sense!"

"It doesn't 'ave to make sense, _mon petit lapin._ And I see you finally bought a dictionary, zhen?" was the only response he got, as if nothing was happening at all. Did he really not care at all about how horrible England felt? Not one tiny bit? Though of course, that wasn't surprising to England, not in the least. He had a history of brothers that didn't care about him -things within the British-Irish family were just about settling down again. Before the union in 1707, they never really seemed to care about their youngest brother, either. And France was just another one of them, though with another shared parent. And seeing as their father had been a selfish bastard and France had inherited quite a few of his genes...

"I really have to finish my work now, France," England sighed after a short silence, his voice quivering a bit as he began trembling again. His fever had _definitely_ gotten worse over the last few minutes. "So please stop bothering me... I have a meeting in two days, and I-"

"Call it off."

"W-what...?" England then stuttered, unsure if he had even heard that right. It had sounded a lot like France was trying to order him around right now, and-

"Call off zhe meeting. You're in no condition to work, and definitely not to go to any meeting. Your government will just 'ave to understand." France sounded bossy indeed, but also genuinely worried, and it... it really touched England. Stupid, childish, but it did. His throat suddenly felt tight, and as did his chest a second later. "B-but, France, there's still so much to do and... I..." At this point, he really didn't know what came over him, but barely a minute later, he found himself crying with his face still planted on his desk and the phone in his trembling right hand. "I-I really can't do all this, France, I just can't! B-being immortal doesn't make me superhuman, too, not like this! I'm n-not some sort of _machine_, yet they make me work like I a-am one! I feel _awful_, France, I -I just want to die at this point. I really can't take this!"

"Arthur," France eventually said, sounding so calm, it was almost reassuring. "Stop working right now, drink some tea, zhen go to bed. And don't you dare take some reports with you -zhat's not zhe 'ealthy version of 'late night reading material'. Just rest, get better, take some time for yourself. _Bon?_" England silenced himself again, keeping his lips pressed shut to stop himself from crying any more -it was becoming pathetic by now, the way he saw it. Then he just about managed to choke out a soft agreement, and France hummed approvingly. "Very good. _Bonne nuit, mon petit frere._" Then he ended the call, leaving England in shocked silence. He never knew France could be so... so caring. And especially the last part -England spoke enough French to know exactly what it meant- had come as a surprise to the younger nation. France had many nicknames for him, most of them mocking, some just meant to be cute -and thus still mocking-, but never before had he called England his little brother yet. And for the very first time since he'd met France hundreds of years ago, the French nation had acted like the older half-brother he was. And it... it felt surprisingly good.

* * *

The day after that, Wales collapsed onto his knees, gasping for breath, and the human that had been guiding him knelt down beside him. "No running yet, I see?" she asked calmly, and Wales shook his head. "N-not this much yet, clearly... damn, this is... this is hard," he choked out his answer, sighing after that. Maybe he'd overdone it just now -he had barely ever actually collapsed like this during revalidation after the first three months. But really, it had been a year since he started working on this, he should have gotten farther by now. "You're doing great, you know," the woman beside him said, as if she had read his mind just now. "You've been paralysed for over twenty years, in a wheelchair for nearly twenty-five. Considering how weakened your legs were when we started, you're doing even better than any of us had expected. And don't forget your position as _nation_ keeps you so busy you barely have time to practice here, under supervision. Don't expect too much of yourself. We're doing this one step at a time." Wales just nodded slowly. "Now, I think it's best if we go back, hm? No running anymore for you for today."

"If I can even get up at this point!" the nation laughed, though he felt closer to crying. How could he have expected that he would be walking again by now when he first regained sense in his legs? How could he have hoped he could be back on a horse by now? How could he have been so _foolishly optimistic?_ He struggled to get to his feet and struggled even harder to remain standing, and with help from the human, went back home again. There, he wasn't planning on doing anything more than lying down and read or something, but he didn't get the chance: a great amount of files and paperwork had been faxed his way, apparently, along with a note that said '_would you please take care of this here, I'll do the other part. Gotta have Artie take some time off, the poor bugger. You should see him. Or maybe you shouldn't. Take care, little brother. -Allistair'_

Wales sighed. Of course they couldn't let their little brother do all the work by himself, but he had completely forgotten about all that. On the 25th, he had wanted to tell England to share the workload with him, but due to everything that had happened, he didn't get the chance. And the day after that, he simply forgot to mention it. "No rest for me yet," he mumbled to himself, grabbing some reports to read through -still flopping down on the couch. That part was a necessity at this point.

* * *

"Dylan got some o'the work now, too, Artie," Scotland said, turning back to England, who sat on the couch wit a steaming cup of tea in his hands. The younger nation was ghostly pale, and Scotland surpressed a sigh. "Ye shouldn't think I couldn't handle this work just because of what happened... _then_," he told him sternly. "I'm not a wee kid: I'm yer big brother, Artie. No matter what, I should be the one takin' care o'ye and not the other way 'round. Okay? I'm fine, yer not. It's that simple."

England nodded slowly, but remained silent for a little while, until the Scot sat down beside him for a moment. "Why did you come here, anyway?"

"France told me to," the older brother answered, which earned him a huff from England, and amused, he ruffled his little brother's hair a bit. "He told me 'bout yer phonecall yesterday, an' I left immediately. Told me to take responsibility like a brother should, go over to ye, make sure ye were okay an' do yer work for now. An' ye know, he was right. An' it's something good for me, too: if I had nothing to do, I'd only think too much 'bout Pr-Gilbert an' Ludwig. I'm just grateful for bein' able to help ye an' have something to take my mind of things." England nodded again, taking a sip of his tea, nearly burning his lips in the process and thus placing the cup on the coffeetable for the time being. It remained silent in the room for about two minutes, until Scotland spoke again.

"He also told me to call ye Bunny."

"Of course he did."

* * *

**So, er... things are not going too well for the brothers. But what else could one expect?**

**And yes: Ireland is still not convinced of either one of the possibilities regarding his relationship with Northern Ireland. Though, I'll admit, he leans more towards the 'father-son' one than the 'brothers'.**

**Anyways, thank you so much for reading, please leave a review, and I hope the next chapter won't take too long.**


	13. Chapter 13

**It's been a while since my last chapter, I know, so you're getting a long one this time! Some cuteness, some angst... the usual. And then some more...**

**Crossfire, thank you for the review, and Kawaz, thanks for the favourite on Rising!**

**I hope you will enjoy this chapter!**

**I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

"Hey, North!" When Northern Ireland heard his name being called, he turned around. He had been about to leave school and go home again for the day, when one of his friends ran after him. It was a girl of about his physical age, with long, dark brown hair which she always kept in a ponytail. In the two years he'd gone to school now, he'd never seen her without one. She, along with the two other friends he had here, were the only ones not to act weird around him just because he wasn't human, and he was very grateful for that. He blinked at her. "Hi, Caitlin."

She grinned at him. "Want to come over to my place tomorrow? I still need to help you with Gaelic one day, after all!" Caitlin then gave him a playful poke in the shoulder as they walked together for a moment. She was one of the best in the class when it came to Irish, and he was still one of the worst. They had joked around once, saying that Caitlin could help him out once every week, but they had never really gotten to it yet. And again, he shook his head. "Sorry, I can't. I have to leave tomorrow: EEC stuff." Caitlin let out a disappointed sigh. "Don't they ever give you a day off?" she asked, a small trace of pity in her voice. North just shrugged and asnwered that it was the aftermath of the war, even though it ended four years ago. That, and the recently-formed EEC still needed some work to 'perfect' it, though Northern Ireland thought it would never be perfect. "When will you be back?" Caitlin then asked, and North shrugged again. He really didn't like talking about his work: it only reminded him that he was different from all the others around him.

"In a week or so, I guess," he answered softly, sighing, and Caitlin gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up. They then turned a corner, walking into the street where Northern Ireland's house was -it _was_ his, after all, and would be his alone once he was old enough. He was staring at the clouds absent-mindedly when Caitlin poked his arm again. "Isn't that where you live?" she asked, pointing at the nation's house, where a fairly tall man stood in front of the door, apparently searching for the right key. North sighed and nodded. "It is," he answered. "And that is my brother, Cearul -Ireland. And I think he forgot the keys... _again._"

Caitlin giggled for a moment, asking if he did that often. North merely shook his head. "Not usually, no, but he's been really distracted lately. He says he's formally becoming a republic soon, something he's been aiming for this entire century, so he's a little... a little too excited over it, if you ask me." He huffed, though with no real anger or frustration in his voice as he added, "It turned him into a scatterbrained idiot. Cearul!" He called his brother the moment he was close to him, his human friend still beside him. Ireland jumped a little, startled, then turned around with a guilty look in his eyes and a sheepish grin.

"H-hi there, Coineach..." he said. "Sorry, I... I really thought I had the right ones with me this time." He then held up the bundle of keys in his left hand: at least ten of them dangled from a little chain. "These are too bloody many to walk around with, anyway!" the older nation then tried to defend himself, though a little hopelessly. "I mean, my house, Ballinhassig, Belfast, London, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Glasgow... ye name it." North didn't listen, quickly inspected the keys as his brother talked and picked one out of the bundle. "It's this one, Cearul," he said dryly, sticking it in the lock and opening the door. Ireland blinked at it for a moment, silently, clearly embarassed. Then he shook his head and looked at Caitlin, who was shifting on her feet a bit in a mixture of amusement and slight discomfort. "And I take it this is a friend o'yers, lad?" he asked, and North nodded, introducing the two to each other quickly. Caitlin then quickly said she had to go home and ran off, waving goodbye to her friend before disappearing around yet another corner of the street. Northern Ireland said goodbye quickly, too, and then pulled Ireland inside. He'd had enough embarassment for the day just now. Then again, since this was Ireland and he wasn't really connected to him on a national level, it wasn't so bad.

"I'm sorry I... spaced out again today..." Ireland apologised once he and his little brother were inside and he was getting them something to drink. "But I got some wonderful news today! Wonderful and downright terrifying, actually, but..." He fell silent for a moment, taking a deep breath as he went to sit at the table beside North and handed the boy his drink. After this moment of silence, he said as casually as he could, "Two days." North blinked at him, a little confused, but then it dawned on the kid, and he stared at his older brother wide-eyed. "_Two days?_" he echoed, completely stunned. "You'll be a republic in two days? O-officially and completely seperated from us... in just two days?" Ireland nodded and said something else, but North wasn't listening anymore. Up until now, he'd acted like seperating from his oldest brother wasn't such a big deal, like Ireland was completely overreacting and nothing would really change at all. But now that it came this close, he couldn't comprehend the situation anymore. His brother would really leave... that meant there would be less contact between him and the UK. He really wouldn't be involved in anything they did anymore, or the other way around. It felt so surreal to Northern Ireland. The world as he knew and had known it his entire life it was about to change forever. He just hoped the change wouldn't be too great.

"Coineach? Coin, lad, are ye even listening?" Ireland's voice then shook the child from his wandering thoughts, and North shook his head slowly, apologising in a soft whisper. Ireland just sighed softly, and repeated, "I was just saying that ye have a choice to make soon -ye can... ye can choose to stay with the UK, or y'could come with me. It has been discussed with yer other brothers, an' they're okay with anything ye choose. It's completely up to ye." At this, North's face went blank and as did his mind. He would have to make a choice like that? To be with Ireland or to be with the UK? "But I would be able to still spend time with _all_ of you...?" he asked softly, his voice monotone and devoid of any emotion. Ireland blinked at him once, then patted him on the shoulder. His voice sounded far away to the child when he answered, "Yes, but... less. If ye'd stay with the UK, I wouldn't be with ye in Belfast as much -or ye with me in Dublin. That's how it goes, Coineach." Northern Ireland's heart almost stopped when he heard that. But he loved being with his brothers, all of them! How could he choose between them like this? A long silence passed, and eventually he just managed to whisper, "I need some time to think... think it all through..." before going silent again.

Ireland watched him in silence, biting the inside of his lip to stop himself from talking now. _You're mine, Coineach,_ he wanted to say. _You belong with me, I'm almost certain of -no, I __**am**__ certain of that now. You're really my son..._ He'd gotten this confirmation a few weeks ago, and so far, he'd only discussed it with Scotland, who confirmed it even further by saying he'd heard the same thing a few months ago. Ireland knew the difference between dreams and reality very well, and this, though he had been asleep at the time, had definitely been real...

* * *

Ireland was in a forest, immediately knowing he was dreaming: this was the forest he'd grown up in. The one that no longer existed. He knew who he would find here, as he did so every time he returned home in his dreams, but he never got the chance to talk to her. His mother would always walk away from him, or just stand there in silence, or he would only catch a glimpse of her without ever reaching her. So when he heard her voice behind him, carried on the breeze and gentle like she had always been, he was motionless with shock for a moment. "Hello, my dear." Ireland's breath caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to recover from his initial shock and turn around. And there she was, smiling warmly, her emerald eyes shining like they always did. Ireland opened his mouth, though his voice took a moment longer to follow. And when it did, he could just curse his own tongue. It was the first time in many years that he had a chance to speak to his deceased mother, and the first thing he got over his lips was "Why am I here?"

Britannia smiled wider, understanding why he would ask this: she did not often get the chance to speak to one of her children these days. England had been one of the last, all the way back in 1916, when he nearly died. And Wales, in 1921, after he got shot accidentally and became paralysed by it. "You're not dead or dying," she assured her oldest son with a tiny nod. "Don't worry. It was decided that you and your brothers deserve some information by now."

Ireland narrowed his eyes slightly, taking it in for a moment, wondering what it was. When Britannia added that it was him, especially, that needed this information to be put at ease, he suddenly understood. "This is about Coineach, isn't it? Northern Ireland?" He had no doubt his mother would know who he was talking about when he said Coineach, but he still felt he had to add. "Have you spoken to him before? Seen him at all?"

Britannia shook her head slowly. "I have watched him, but never got the chance to speak to him yet, for I am not allowed to. I am rarely allowed to speak to you and your brothers, my very own sons, like this, let alone him..." Ireland's eyes widened and his heart started racing, pounding painfully against his ribs as his mother went on, "Because, Eire, all those years ago, your little brother was right about one thing: Northern Ireland is not my son. How could he be, if I died nearly two thousand years before his birth? But-"

Ireland wasn't listening anymore at this point. Right now, his heart seemed to be having a battle with itself: should it beat even wilder, or should it stop completely? He just got the confirmation he'd wanted for so long. Northern Ireland wasn't Britannia's son, like they all were. He wasn't their little brother. So it must be... he must really be Ireland's own son. The nation waited until the sound of his mother's voice died away, then rasped softly, "S-so it's true then? I'm really his father?"

"That, Eire, is something I cannot tell you," Britannia said, and something in her voice told Ireland she'd said this before just now, when he hadn't been listening. "I'm not saying you are, nor denying it. All I'm saying is that he isn't mine."

"But what else would he be?" Ireland asked, confused. "If he is not your son, not our little brother, then he must be mine, right? He looks too much like us -too much like _me_, to be frank- to not be a part of the family." But as he spoke, he realised it wasn't all true what he was saying: many nations were born without parents. America and Canada had neither a father or a mother, not even grandparents like the Italies, but yet they were twins. The Italian brothers, too, were twins, even though Romano was a decade or two older than Veneziano. Nation twins weren't always born the same moment -it was more something they figured out on their own eventually. England was without a doubt their brother, but he, unlike most of the world, had two parents -his mother Britannia and his father Rome. Through his father, he had half-siblings on the mainland. But if sharing one parent with other nations would make them half-siblings, that would mean Ireland and the rest of the UK were his half-brothers, too, and the whole world knew with a certainty they weren't. And to top it all off, by nation standards, England and Wales would have probably been twins, as Wales was only a year older -much less than the age difference with the Italians. But they weren't, everyone knew that. Nation biology was not so much their blood connection as it was the feeling they had about it. _But then, why have I never felt a certainty about Coineach?_ he wondered, and another voice in his mind immediately answered the question. _But you did,_ it told him. _From day one, your connection to him has been stronger than that with your brothers. Dylan's reasoning back then made so much sense to you. You always knew, you just kept denying it for stupid reasons._ "He's mine," he whispered under his breath, and for the first time in years, his heart seemed to stitch itself back together. But then he realised that, even though he knew this for sure now, it was too late to ever tell the boy, and the everlasting pain returned tenfold. Unconsciously he clenched his hands into tight fists, and he got tense all over.

"Eire," his mother spoke softly, reaching to him but not touching him, and Ireland then realised she _couldn't_ touch him. "It just hurts, mom," he said in a whisper. "Every day. I know I'm his father, but I also know I could never be that for him. He's my son, but it's too late to claim him as such. It hurts so much... And I know I made the right decision for _him_, but it's the worst decision I ever made for myself." Britannia nodded, her gaze understanding. She knew all too well what that felt like: here she was, standing in front of her oldest son, and she couldn't even touch him, couldn't even place a hand on his shoulder. All she could do was speak words of comfort, but words were all she had. She had watched them all grow up, grow into strong nations and see them live their lives for nineteen centuries. But only rarely had she been able to talk to them. It had taken her until a few decades ago to be able to speak to her youngest son. She could hold his hand then, but no more than that, while she'd only held him once before as she lay dying. If there was one feeling the ancient country knew, it was that of being so near your children, yet being so far away from them. And though not even she could tell whether the youngest member of the family was her sons' brother or her grandson, to know her firstborn was going through the same pain she was every day hurt her so much.

"Though it does not always describe family bonds in blood," she said softly, and Ireland looked up again, listening to what his mother had to say. "Emotions do not lie. Coineach may or may not be yours, Eire, but if your heart tells you he is, then that is what it feels like to you, and what it will always feel like. Even if it turns out he's simply your youngest brother, these feelings will remain. It is something you learn to live with, hard as it may be, cruel as though it is. But you're strong, Eire, and I have faith in you: I know you'll get through this, and I know you'll do what's best for that boy, no matter the costs for yourself. And that, my dear, is what makes you a great parent, evenif you may not be one by blood." Ireland remained silent after this: his mother's words had hit him like a punch in the gut. Would he? Could he keep this up for North's entire life? Could he really keep it secret for so long, with the pain it caused only increasing with the day? He wasn't nearly as sure of it as Britannia was. Still, he smiled and nodded. If she had such faith in him, he could not betray her trust, he just couldn't.

Then came the moment they had to say goodbye once again, and neither of them knew when they would see each other again, if they ever would. That was always the question, every single time. But they were both sure they would, one day. And Ireland awoke with only one thing on his mind the entire morning: whether biologically or not, _he had a son._

"Coineach," Ireland said suddenly, watching the boy beside him, tense with confusion and inner turmoil. North immediately looked up, his pale emerald eyes glazed over with emotion, and Ireland cursed himself inwardly. He had been about to break his vow. "Just know..." he stammered, thinking of something else quickly. _Just know that I'm your father. Maybe that'll make the choice easier._ "Yer choosing for _you_ an' no one else, alright? Choose what feels best for yerself." Northern Ireland nodded, relaxing a bit after that, and Ireland calmed down again as well. This was what he wanted to see most of all: that child being at ease, happy and without worry. He didn't want to ever see him miserable. So he patted the boy on the back, got up and walked away, trying to get his mind off this. He was becoming a republic in two days, he should focus on that instead. His dream of the past century would finally come true. _That_ deserved his attention, not some question he would never get the full answer to.

* * *

And two days later, the day had finally come. 18 April 1949 was the day the Republic of Ireland Act was signed, on Easter Monday. It was the 33rd anniversary of the start of the Easter Rising in 1916, and like always on that day, Ireland's mind was with the people that orchestrated the entire undertaking back then, the amazing people he'd met: Thomas Clarke, James Connolly, Joseph Plunkett, Patrick Pearse and many others. So many years after they had given their lives for this purpose, their dream as well as his had finally become reality. He was happier than ever, twitchy with excitement as he signed the Act, then watched his younger brothers do so.

Northern Ireland wasn't quite as happy as he was. He didn't like change, not the big changes like this one. He had made his decision about where he would go rather quickly, but he didn't like it. He wanted things to stay like they were: him being with all his brothers, one at a time, equally shared time. The prospect of seeing Ireland so much less after today really didn't appeal to him, and his heart was pounding against his ribs as he watched his brothers signing the Act one by one. Seeing them like this reminded him of the last official document he'd seen them sign whilst being with their bosses and representatives: the one in 1947. He wondered for a moment how East and West were doing now, as he had hoped he could become friends with them, or at least West, them being nearly the same age. But thinking about them, he kenw he was just trying not to have to think about today, and he shook those thoughts away again. It was his turn to sign now, and he signed on the UK's side of it. Ireland, now signing as Eire, which would be his official name again from today on, had his name all alone on one end of the paper. It looked so... so lonely, and North hoped that wouldn't be what his oldest brother would feel like from now on. He glanced up at the Irishman and saw only joy, excitement and pure bliss in his pale eyes, a mood so much brighter than it had been lately. He tried to smile, too, but then when he looked back down at the document, he saw _Eire_ written in one corner, the rest of the family's names in the other. Was that what it would be from now on? Ireland, isolated and on his own, seperated from the rest of the family, which were close together in Great Britain and Northern Ireland like they were on paper? The child finished writing his name quickly, and then took a quick step back.

"Congratulations, Old Man!" Scotland said then, stepping forward to his older brother and holding him in a firm embrace, patting him on the back as he did so. "Finally the day's come, hm? Yer the Republic of Ireland now." Ireland's blue eyes shone with countless emotions, all positive and light, when his little brother said that, then let go of Scotland again, Wales soon taking the Scot's place and congratulating Ireland also. When the Welshman stepped away again, Ireland's gaze fell on England, and North looked at his older brother, too. England, like all of them were, was smiling wide as well. "Thanks for accepting it this time, lil' brother," Ireland said to him. "Signing that Act... ye allowed me to become a republic just now. Thank ye, lil' brother."

"Well, you know," England answered, shrugging. "I suppose that, three decades after proclaiming yourself a republic, I guess you deserved becoming one." There was no spite in his voice, none at all, and yet his words triggered something in Northern Ireland that the boy couldn't comprehend. His eyes filled with tears in a matter of heartbeats, and barely four seconds later, a sob made its way past his lips. His older brothers all turned to look at him in surprise, and Ireland was already stepping toward him, reaching to the boy with one hand. "Coineach? Hey, laddie, what's wrong?" he asked softly, placing his hand on the child's cheek now in a comforting gesture. But Northern Ireland, crying by now, shrugged him off and then swatted his hand away. He didn't know why, for he wanted nothing more than to be hugged by his oldest brother and be comforted by him and to hear him saying that everything was going to be just fine despite the drastic changes. But when Ireland tried a second time to comfort the young nation, North hit his hands away again and just ran off after that. Why couldn't everything just stay the way it was? Why did Ireland have to leave the British Commonwealth -and why did it feel like he was leaving the entire family in doing so? North just wanted things to stay the way they were: his time being equally shared between his four older brothers. He used to stay with them for roughly three months each, and it was just fine like that. They had just about gotten back to that routine after the war, and now it was being turned upside down once again, and he downright hated it.

* * *

Ireland was staring after Northern Ireland in surprise and confusement. All the joy he'd felt over today was gone in an instant as he watched North run off crying. He wanted to go after him, but England grabbed him by the wrist and stopped him, giving him a harsh stare. Instead, Wales got to his feet and quickly said that he would go after him to see what was wrong. "What's gotten into that kid suddenly...?" Ireland asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he narrowed his eyes in worry. Scotland sighed and answered, "An aversion to change and a deep-rooted fear of seperation. I think we shouldn't have taken the lad with us back in '47: this is a bit of a trauma from what he witnessed that day. He's spoken to me about it before... prob'ly because I'm the only one here that seems to care 'bout what happened that day as much as he does. Which, mind ye," he added as he got up, "is the reason I think _I _should go talk t'him now. See ye in a bit, brothers." And then he, too, left the room and went after Northern Ireland, leaving England and Ireland alone in the room.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" England asked dryly after a silence of about two minutes, and Ireland looked up in surprise. The younger nation narrowed his eyes at his brother, adding, "When you want to comfort him _so bad_ and he simply _doesn't want you_. But Dylan and Al haven't returned yet, so I take it they're fine for him. Just not _you..._ Doesn't it hurt?" There was not a trace left of the kindness and warmth England had spoken with minutes ago, and he didn't make an effort to feign it anymore. He sighed when Ireland glared at him, though the older brother remained silent, and the Englishman went on, "You know, of course Allistair told me you went bonkers because of some stupid dream. Naturally, he didn't say it like that exactly, that's just my interpretation. And while I'm not all against the idea of you being Coineach's father, Cearul, I am _completely_ against the idea of you acting like it. You had your chance, and now you don't anymore, it's that simple. This is just another example, my dear brother: that kid hasn't thought of you as his father for a single heartbeat in his life, and he never will. Just give up." He saw Ireland growing tense from the corners of his eyes as he spoke, his pale blue eyes starting to spit fire by the end of it. England didn't care: Ireland simply had to be reminded of the situation sometimes, especially now that their mother (England didn't doubt the dream had been real -he'd experienced a similar thing himself, after all) had given the man all kinds of ideas he just really didn't like.

"Is Coineach staying with me?" Ireland demanded angrily, a nasty edge to his voice. "Did I force him to choose for me? Did I manipulate him to choose me? No! And he _didn't_, he chose to stay with _you_ instead! So what gives you the _fucking right _to accuse me of such rubbish?! Did you hear me complain when Coin told us he would stay with the UK or something? Because I don't remember doing that! I'm giving him every ounce of freedom he needs, Arthur, and I'm not trying to tell him anything! But that I sometimes get the urge to take on another role than that of the big brother -forgive me, but that's something I can't help."

"Well, you damn well better learn to surpress it, then!" England answered harshly, raising his voice a bit. "Hell, do you want me to turn this into some kind of catchphrase? _You had your chance, Cearul!_ Let go of any fatherly feelings once and for all, because you'll never get that role. Just become the big brother you've always been before that kid was born, alright? That's what's best for him, and also what's best for you."

Ireland was trembling with anger at this point, tiny tremors going through his shoulders and arms, and he was gritting his teeth as he glared at his younger brother. "Suddenly I'm not so surprised America wanted t'leave ye, lad," he said softly, his voice low and full of hate. England's eyes widened a bit. Ireland did _not _just pull the American Revolution card. "Ye've never been a true father," Ireland went on. "Otherwise ye'd have known those feelings can't be set aside just like that. Now ye listen t'me, Artie: I'm not going to break my promise about never telling Coineach anything, not if I can help it. But do ye remember that promise we made to eachother in '21, after Dylan got hurt? We swore we would never fight each other again like we used to back then. Now, if ye try to keep me an' Coineach apart longer than necessary, I won't hesitate to break that particular promise, ye understand?"

England huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at Ireland in pure rage. "Now now," he said, trying to sound calm. "When did you start threatening me about that boy?" He smirked, but only to make the rage boiling in his blood. It only seemed to anger Ireland even further, though. "The moment _you_ started making a habit of taunting me about him," the Irishman answered coldly. He grabbed England by his tie, pulling him closer and tightening the cloth around his brother's neck by that to the point he was nearly choking him. England, however, didn't put up much of a struggle to get free. He just let his older brother do as he wanted for now. Ireland brought his face close to England's, something that sent shivers down the younger one's spine. He'd never seen his older brother this threatening, this enraged toward him. "Coineach is _mine_," the newly named Republic of Ireland hissed into his brother's ear, a barely audible but terrifyingly angry whisper. "_And I __**will**__ get him back._"

* * *

**Aaand, the Troubles are getting ever closer. Really, England shouldn't have been taunting Ireland like that, but hey... he can be an ass sometimes. The same goes for Ireland and the others.**

**Also, I'm still not gong either way: Britannia didn't give a definite answer, did she? Coineach isn't hers, as she's been dead for ages, but she never told Cearul he was his instead. He just assumed so. So it's still up to you guys to decide! Is England being a stubborn ass, or is Ireland jumping to conclusions way too quickly? Or maybe both...**

**Well, that's it for today, the next chapter -hopefully- won't take me over a week again. Thanks for reading, **


	14. Chapter 14

**New chapter is ready!**

**Crossfire, as always, thank you for the review. Unnecessarily mean-spirited and scarily possessive was exactly what I was aiming for! (evil grin)**

**Well, it's going to get worse and better and worse again for a while... the Troubles are getting ever nearer.  
I've been stuck on this chapter for a little while, not knowing how to continue, so the end may seem like a bit of a filler. Sorry for that, but I hope it's a nice one at least.**

**Well, there you go: (and I don't own Hetalia)**

* * *

Things between England and Ireland didn't become better after that. They were by far not the only ones with tensions, though. In fact, their rekindled hatred for each other might well have been strengthened, if not caused, by the ever remaining tensions between the IRA and the British. The IRA had lost most of its members, only a few hundred remaining, and those caught with arms were ordered to dispose of them, not just by the Brits but by the Irish government too. Further along in 1949, the IRA joined Sinn Fein, the political party, which was to become the political or 'civilian' wing of the IRA from there on. Ireland was hardly involved with them anymore at that point, though he was greatly affected by their ideals, for they weren't the only ones in Ireland. Many people wished for things to become like they were, with a unified Ireland. However, they would have to remain independent: that was the only thing that could stay the same to most of them. But Northern Ireland, according to their ideals, would have to disappear, and Ireland would be one nation again. And though the old nation had enough sense not to want North to disappear, his people's wishes affected his own.

England seemed to become more spiteful towards Ireland with the day, which eventually didn't go unnoticed by the other family members anymore. Whenever he got the chance, he would taunt him for whatever reason. He was angry about something, clearly, but whenever Scotland or Wales would ask him about it, though he always gave an explanation, his answers were never clear. And when Northern Ireland complained to him about it, he, unlike Ireland, wouldn't stop immediately. His actions weren't as easily explained by his politics as Ireland's were, though bits and pieces of it really did seem to be an effect of all that. Still, he and his oldest brother managed to not let it come to a real fight all year. And by Christmas that year, which the family celebrated in London, things seemed to be looking up between the two again.  
But of course, such things just never were what they seemed.

"I just can't believe we're nearly halfway through the century," Wales mused as he and his brothers sat gathered in the livingroom. They had just finished watching a film -something they rarely did- and the Welshman was completely stunned by it, as per usual. "I mean, look at this! At the start of this century, film industry wasn't nearly as big, they couldn't even add proper sounds to it, it all... My lord, sometimes I miss the medieval days. You know, back when we belonged to the top 5% of our countries or something like that? In intelligence, I mean. I don't even get how they make this... and frankly, I don't think I ever will."

"Ye sound like an old man, Dylan," Scotland snickered, though he, too, didn't get technology at all. He could use a telephone, he could drive and then some things. And that, he had decided, was all he needed to know -the world went a bit too fast to follow, especially considering they hadn't had too much time on their hands the past years to learn it all. Wales just shrugged at this and answered that he _was_ old, after all, and so were they all. The only one unfazed by all this was Northern Ireland, whose only comments were that he'd liked the film, though he prefered the book. He'd read Oliver Twist a few times already, after all, and one could hardly beat the original story in his opinion. England only agreed with him, then joined Wales in his complaints about the world 'improving' too fast to their liking. Ireland was the only one to remain silent, though he stared at the black screen with a puzzled expression for a little while, seemingly also wondering how such a thing was made. Northern Ireland was silent after he stated his opinion as well, listening intently to his older brothers. He was very glad about the era he'd been born in (though it could get rid of a few wars for all he cared) but he sometimes wondered what it would have been like if he'd been older, and could actually join his brothers when they were being nostalgic.

"Well, I better get started on tonight's dinner, I suppose," England said eventually, getting up, earning a startled stare from his older brothers. He smirked. "Relax: it's only heating a few things. I know my cooking is terrible, thank you very much."

"We're lucky if it's edible," Scotland added, wide-eyed, feigning fear. Though Northern Ireland wondered if it was _all_ fake, or that some of the fear was real. Ireland then got up, saying he would go help -just to make sure their little brother wouldn't poison them all. Though they didn't miss the flash of emotion in his eyes, and North leaned against Scotland casually, getting nervous. England didn't protest, and neither did Scotland or Wales, but the three brothers left in the livingroom exchanged a worried glance when the two had gone. This couldn't end well, though they hoped it would. But England would without a doubt start taunting Ireland again, and the latter would use his entire cursing-vocabulary again, which was by far the most elaborate one in the family. But maybe, just maybe, they would actually cook something together... and hopefully they would all survive dinner.

* * *

"So what's the real reason you tagged along?" England demanded the moment he and Ireland were in the kitchen, not looking at his brother as he started chopping carrots. Ireland huffed and leaned against a cupboard, his gaze not leaving his little brother. "You're just a sore loser, aren't you?" he asked, and the younger nation instantly stopped his chopping and looked up. "Excuse me?" he asked, and Ireland shrugged.

"You're a sore loser," the Irishman explained. "You just really can't stand the fact that, after all these years, I'm became a republic and you lost. Isn't that why you've been a right arse to me the entire year?" He went to stand beside England now, expression calm but shoulders tense.

"I didn't _lose,_" England growled, and it was immediately clear that Ireland had hit close to home just now. "I _let _you become a republic, and don't forget that. The battle ended nearly thirty years ago, and it ended in a godforsaken _draw._ A treaty. That's all. I never lost anything."

Ireland laughed for a moment, and he mockingly patted England on the shoulder then. "Of course you didn't, Artie. Then why are you so upset about it? Things were going just fine between us until the day I became a republic, after all. That's when you went bonkers." England swatted his brother's arm away now, knife still in his hand, and Ireland took a quick step back, just in case. The younger nation narrowed his eyes at his brother for a moment, his emerald eyes aflame with anger, but then he smirked. "I'm just fine on my own here, you know," he said calmly, as if nothing had happened. "Why don't you go back to the livingroom, talk with Coineach a bit? I'm sure you must have _missed him_..." Ireland folded his hands into fists now, clenching them tightly. "See?" he said, trying his very best not to raise his voice. "You're doing it again: I do something you don't like, and you become an arse again. I was just asking if that was the reason: I've been wondering all year what I did to upset you."

"Yeah, sure," England said, turning back to his carrots, his eyes still narrowed in anger. "Are you really sure you didn't just come along to taunt me like I did you? Some sweet revenge? Oh, I'm sure our brothers would like that. Or haven't you seen Coineach's reaction when you followed me? He's afraid of you, brother dear. You wouldn't want to ruin your relationship with your _dear boy_ just because of me, now would you?" Ireland huffed and averted his gaze, muttering that he should be above this. "Yes, you should," England agreed. "Be the wise one between us two and walk away. I'm sure Coineach would like to talk to you again. Then again, maybe not. He didn't seem to miss you much, after all."  
At this, Ireland punched his younger brother in the face full-force.

* * *

Wales, Scotland and North were on their feet the moment they heard a loud bang in the kitchen. Whereas Wales looked mostly worried and Scotland was plain annoyed, Northern Ireland was actually scared: he'd never seen any of his brothers fight yet, but when they reached the kitchen, England lay on his back, blood pouring from his nose and lips, Ireland crouched over him. There was a deep cut in the Irishman's left thigh, but he had that foot firmly on England's right wrist, a knife just beside his hand, blood covering the blade. Scotland sighed, muttering, "Well, they kept it up for almost thirty years..." For a split second, it looked as if England was immobilised with pain, his face twisted in agony, but then he managed to push Ireland off him, then kicking his older brother in the head and against the cupboard. Before Ireland could recover from the sudden and hard impact, the younger nation kicked him like that again, even harder this time, and Ireland curled up for a moment, hands pressed to the side of his head, which was soon covered in blood. Within two seconds, however, both nations looked ready to jump each other again, and Scotland and Wales quickly intervened, Wales jumping on Ireland and Scotland restraining England. The two nations kept struggling for a moment, until almost simultaneously, England and Wales let out a short cry of pain.

"Dylan?" Ireland said quickly, voice overflowing with worry. The younger nation let his older brother go, instead pressing his hands to his lower back, gritting his teeth in pain. "Are you alright?" Wales nodded slowly, answering that he was fine: Ireland just shouldn't squirm as much when he was trying to restrain him, he added, laughing. His laughter faded, however, when England hissed in pain again. At that moment, both Wales and Ireland stared at their younger brother. Scotland, kneeling just beside England, was gently holding the nation's right arm, slowly trying to twist the wrist a bit. But the moment he did this -again, apparently- England flinched and hissed in pain again. Scotland sighed, letting go of his younger brother's arm again. "That one's broken, laddie," he said, looking sideways at Ireland with an angry flash in his eyes.

"No, really?" Englans asked, his voice hoarse with pain. "I would've never guessed that bones could _break_ when being _stomped on_ like that!" Ireland was about to say something in response, his pale eyes gleaming with anger, when Scotland got up and started yelling at the two of them. "How in the name of everythin' sacred can ye both be so _stupid?!_ Fighting each other like this! Everything went _so well_ for the past decades. What happened? Why are ye back where ye started?" Both England and Ireland looked away guiltily, but when they were spoken to again, much to everyone's surpsrise, it was North instead of Scotland. "You're both idiots!" he yelled at them. "Why would you fight? That's so stupid! You're brothers and -underneath all this- I just know you really care about each other!" He then looked at Scotland with pleading -but angry- green eyes, adding, "I'm coming with you after Christmas, okay? I don't want to be with these two right now." Scotland just nodded silently.

"Now let's get the two of you to a hospital," Wales said, getting up, pulling Ireland onto his feet as well. The older nation was swaying on his feet, not only because of the deep cut in his tigh, but also the headwound, where blood was pouring out by now. Without a doubt, he had a concussion. Scotland helped England up as well, and the four nations slowly made their way out of the kitchen. Northern Ireland, however, didn't follow them. Scotland was the first to notice, leaving England's side and kneeling down in front of the young nation. "Laddie, please," he said softly, looking the boy in the eyes for a moment. "Just come with us, okay? Tomorrow everything'll be normal again... I promise. Tomorrow, we'll all have fun together an' nothing will happen to ruin it. But for now, ye'll just need to come with us." He held out his hand to North when the child still didn't react, and slowly, North grabbed it. Scotland just sighed and hugged his little brother for a moment, and when he let go again, Ireland was beside them, looking down at North with a clear look of guilt. "I'm sorry, Coineach," he apologised softly. "I'm really sorry, I... it's unfair, what I did. I shouldn't have ruined today for ye."

"Shut up," Northern Ireland yelled at him, his voice cold and angry. "You should have thought about that before you fought Arthur." Ireland took a step back, staring at the boy in shock and pain for a moment before averting his gaze.

"No, Coineach," England sighed, and the four others all turned to look at him. He had his gaze fixed on the floor and was holding his broken wrist gently with his good hand as he confessed, "This was all me. I... I _made _him attack me. What I said... Coineach, it's completely my fault, not his. If anyone, you should be angry with _me,_ not Cearul." Northern Ireland blinked at him for a moment, then nodded, though he didn't speak. Wales, having gone for a few seconds, returned with a small towel which he pressed into Ireland's hands, and the older nation gratefully pressed it against the cut in his head: the collar of his shirt was turning red by now. When the five walked out of the house and to the Scot's car, Northern Ireland brushed his fingers against Ireland's arm, the softest touch, then fell back and walked beside Scotland again, and the Irishman felt assured that, though it would take time, the child would forgive him for his actions today.

* * *

Northern Ireland didn't mind waiting in the hospital nearly as much as he thought he would. He had taken his current favourite book with him and read silently beside Scotland. The older nation was fuming with anger, though he tried to keep his cool in front of his youngest brother, North could tell, and he appreciated that. Wales was the most worried out of the three of them. England's wrist had not just been broken, but shattered, and he was having a short bit of surgery now to pull out shards of bone and set it again, only his arm anesthetized. Ireland's leg and head had been stitched up neatly again, and he was now getting the usual lecture of do's and don'ts with a concussion, even though he knew it by heart after his long life. And Wales had been going from one to the other, asking if they were alright, how long it would take yet and all such things. Until just now, when he returned to his older and younger brother, looking a bit annoyed. "They sent me away," he huffed, flopping down on Scotland's other side. "Arthur and Cearul. Said I was giving them a headache. Now, in Cearul's case I can understand that right now, but-"

"Well, ye were bein' a wee hurricane just now, laddie," Scotland sighed, not even looking at his younger brother. "Going from one room to the other and back again. Have ye been watching yerself just now? I haven't seen ye walk this fast since 1921! Sit down, relax, or else they'll keep _ye_ here for observation! Aye?" Wales nodded, snickering a bit. At that moment, Ireland came walking in as well, limping a bit. He seemed to want to sit down next to North, but changed his mind quickly and sat opposite of his brothers instead. "So how did it go, Old Man?" Ireland simply smiled and answered that is was the usual: stitches and complaints.

"Honestly, I can't count the times he'd told me to 'get plenty of rest, don't do anything too straining, take it easy with that leg' et cetera, et cetera," he laughed. At this, Northern Ireland looked up curiously. His oldest brother sounded genuinely happy right now, which he found very strange. They were in a hospital, after all, he was undoubtedly in pain and he had just fought with England. How could he be happy? Beside North, Scotland and Wales seemed to lighten up again as well, and the three of them talked until England reappeared in the large corridor, his right arm in a sling. The moment he laid eyes on his little brother, Ireland got up and walked towards him as fast as he could with the pain in his leg -he had just told his brothers that he'd refused to get any painkillers for it: he'd been the biggest arse he'd been in a long time, and this was a fitting punishment. England halted, not too sure how to react when Ireland stopped in front of him. But then the older nation simply put his arms around his little brother, carefully hugging him. "I'm sorry for today, lad," he said, then adding in a whisper audible only to England: "And thank you... for telling Coineach 'twas entirely your fault even when it wasn't."

"But it was," England whispered back, hiding his lips behind Ireland's shoulder as he spoke so the others wouldn't see, and he hugged Ireland back with his good arm, though not too lovingly. It was merely to keep up the facade that they weren't discussing something together. "Well, most of it, anyway. And I guess you deserved better than to have him hate you right now... consider it a Christmas present from me, okay?" Ireland laughed softly. "Well, what an odd way to go about it... thanks, Artie." They then let go of each other again, and when they both turned back to the others, they saw Northern Ireland gaping at them wide-eyed.

"You two are so _WEIRD!_" he yelled at them, completely confused, and jumped up from his chair. "First you bash in each other's faces, then you fucking _hug each other?!_"  
"Language, laddie," Scotland warned him, earning a death glare from the child.  
"Like you're any better!" he yelled, then turned back to his two injured brothers. "You're too weird, both of you. I mean, you- why? I don't get it!" Ireland and England both laughed at his stunned expression, then Ireland answered, "This is how it's always been, Coin: we hate one another, fight, then make up again. It's always been like this, lad, nothing abnormal... ye've just never seen it yet." Northern Ireland just kept staring at them as though they had lost their minds, and he kept doing so all the while back home. Sometimes he just really didn't understand his brothers.

* * *

The next day, Northern Ireland was still not too pleased with Ireland and England for their actions the evening before, but he tried to act as normal as he could, just like his olde brothers did. If it weren't for Ireland's slight limp, the bandages just visible beneath his hair and England's arm still in the sling, it was almost as if the previous day had never happened. By noon, Scotland went to London Airport to pick up France, as they had invited the nation over a few days ago. It wasn't until almost two hours later that they returned, and when they did, Northern Ireland could finally forget his anger again. Over the past years he had grown rather fond of France and, judging by the Frenchman's behaviour, the other way around as well. "Ah, Coineach, _mon cher!_" France said when the boy ran up to him to greet him. "You've grown since zhe last time I saw you. At zhis rate, you'll be taller zhan _mon petit frere _over zhere in a few years!" England grumbled something along the lines of 'please don't make me think about that yet!', but North only laughed at this. He nearly reached England's chest by now, and most people still estimated his age as ten or eleven at most, so it was a good possibility that he'd be taller than his older brother one day. The only one he could probably never outgrow was Scotland, he thought happily.

"Well, France, how's your sister?" Wales asked as they all sat down and talked. France just sighed. "Monaco... well, she decided she'd razher spent zhe 'olidays in her casino zhan with 'er _frere_, 'ence me being 'ere instead of with 'er. But ozher zhan zhat, she's fine." He then glanced at England, or more specifically his arm, then Ireland as the nation let out a soft hiss as he shifted his injured leg to sit more comfortably, but he had enough sense to not mention it. The blond nation then just smiled and asked, "But can any of you believe zhat zhis century is already 'alfway done? It seems like yesterday to me zhat we celebrated zhe start of 1900! Or zhe 19th century, for zhat matter... 'ell, even zhat we celebrated zhe fact we zhe world didn't end in 1000. We're getting old, _mes amis,_ aren't we?"

"We've been old for a long time already, Francis," Scotland answered, smirking. "We stopped being 'young' a thousand years ago, I'm afraid."  
"Ah, don't say it, _mon cher Ecosse!_" France exclaimed, over-dramatized. "I want to forget my age as quickly as I can!" Northern Ireland just sat and watched, smiling wide. This was one of the reasons he liked having France over: they always had fun when he was here. Even his frequent fights with England were so much different than the fights the Englishman had with Ireland. They were actually fun to watch, and the two never really ended up hating each other, anyway. France turned to Ireland, grinning slightly. "And what about you? You're practically zhe oldest in Europe, are you not? 'Ow old are you?"

Ireland sighed and nodded. "Nearing the 25 now, I think. Centuries, I mean. But what does it matter? Eternally in my twenties... I'm fine with any age if it's like this, really. I don't think I'll ever get back problems or high blood pressure or any of that old-people-stuff in this body!"

"Don't count on it," England told him, looking the other way as he spoke. "Japan has been complaining about both things since a few decades, and he's not too much older than you... One day you'll hate your age. And by the way... are you really sure you're still in your twenties?"  
"And you'll be right behind me a millenium later," Ireland answered with a smirk. "You're not exactly youthful anymore, either, lil' brother, don't forget that. And _yes_, I'm 29, thank you very much."  
"And what about me?" Wales then put in, staring at his oldest and younger brother. "_I_ already have a stiff back sometimes!" The three then laughed, and Scotland patted his little brother on the shoulder. The topic of conversation then changed, first to France asking how North's education was coming along, then to North telling about that and the human friends he'd made. Scotland asked the Frenchman if he had some information about the two Germanies, but France shook his head. "West is perfectly 'ealthy," he answered. "East is a mystery. Same as always." France then turned to Ireland, his eyes widening as though he just remembered something important. "_Irlande,_ I 'ave not asked you yet: 'ow do you like being a republic now?"

"I love it," Ireland answered with a bright smile. "It's great. Especially now that I'm finally not too busy anymore. Changing government stays hard work. I'm done for this century! I'm staying a republic for as long as I can." His smile then faded just the slightest, and he added, "It's a bit lonely sometimes, though. I think I've gotten too used to being involved with the United Kingdom..." His smile then returned, a hint of nervousness and soft laughter in his voice as he went on, "I've been thinking, to be honest, and I think I might just get myself a pet by next year. A bird or a cat -something easy to look after on the busier days, but one you can still have a bit of contact with. So dogs and fish aren't an option. Rodents die fast. So... well."

His younger brothers were gaping at him at this, and Scotland choked out, "_Ye?_ An _animal _in yer _home?_" Ireland just shrugged, and at this, Scotland got up. "Okay, that's it! I need some alcohol!" Having said this, he disappeared into the kitchen, only to return a minute later with two bottles in his arms -one wine, the other ale. He then went to get some glasses -and returned with those _and_ a bottle of pear juice for North. The child scowled at this, but only for a second. He liked pear and, if he had to be honest, just the scent of the wine was repulsive to him. He was fine with not drinking alcohol for a while yet if it smelt this bad. A few hours later, they six nations had finished dinner and were back to talking and, in the older five's cases, drinking. North didn't even follow most of it anymore by now. He was happy and he was tired. He really didn't _want _to leave, but when he started nodding off, Wales laughed softly and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, kid," he said. "It's past ten, you should go to bed." North didn't compain as Wales pulled him along, only said goodnight to the others and then yawned. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Wales smiled at him, patting the sleeping boy on the head softly then returning downstairs. Once in the livingroom, he stood motionless and silent, his eyes wide as he stared at his brothers. He wasn't drunk, though it was only one or two more drinks away at this point for sure, but his brothers definitely were. And so was France, who was currently busy kissing Scotland. The Scot didn't seem to mind one bit. "Well, I'm glad you two at least waited until Coineach went to bed," the Welshman sighed, at which Ireland laughed, the laughter Wales recognised only as proof that his oldest brother was _very _drunk. "Ah, they used t'be married, laddie!" he said, voice more high-pitched than usual. "An' Conny knows that! It would've been 'lright..." Wales sat down beside England now, at a good distance from Scotland and France, who parted again now and gave each other a long, very serious stare.

"You're out of practice, _mon cher,_" France concluded after a minute of silence. Scotland nodded slowly and sighed, answering, "An' ye most definitely aren't. 'Twas just like the good ol' days. Good job." Then they moved away from each other a few inches, and everyone continued talking like nothing had happened at all. Just one drink later, Wales decided to take away the alcohol and hide it somewhere before things could really get out of hand. The others were too far gone to complain. He was just glad his brothers had fun today... the fight yesterday, and the many fights over the past year for that matter, seemed very far away now.

* * *

**The Scotland-France thing... I just had to. I don't ship them, but historically it was canon a long time ago. I just _had to!_**

**Ah well... I hope you liked the chapter, and thank you for reading! Also, I'm still not sure what Ireland's pet will be -either a bird or a cat. But he will get one! Poor thing needs to get used to being alone again. Any ideas?**


	15. Chapter 15

**And there's another chapter ready!**

**It's a jump to summer 1954 -and unfortunately another filler for the most part. But that will be for another two chapters at most. I wasn't going to jump from 1949 to 1968 without anything inbetween. These chapters are just to show the progress in those years and the main events leading up to the Troubles -and _other troubles *_smirk***

**Anyway, there's still some information dropping in this chapter, so I wouldn't skip it just because it's a 'filler'. Just some advice.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the happiness. There will once again be a mixture of things in this chapter.**

**I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

"You're people have begun to re-arm," Northern Ireland stated flatly after a long silence had passed between him and Ireland. The scribbling of Ireland's pen immediately stopped, but Northern Ireland just kept on stroking the small grey cat that lay curled up against his hip. He didn't want to make a big deal out of this, not yet, but he wanted Ireland to know that he was aware of what was going on. "The IRA. They're gathering weapons, even within my borders. From Omagh, for example. I hope they aren't planning to use them for what they used them for before."

"I-" Ireland began, immediately falling silent again and staring wide-eyed at North, who was still stroking the older nation's cat with an expression and air as if he were talking about the weather. "Coineach, just know that I have nothing to do with them," the Irishman said eventually, a hint of fear in his voice. "Nothing. I left them a long time ago, kid. Whatever they do, I'll have no part in it." North nodded slowly, though he didn't seem very convinced. The way he just kept stroking the cat's head was becoming unnerving.

"You mean you're content like this?" he asked casually. "Living here on your own, only lil' Cinder here to keep you company... and me for a week every four months. And then some humans, of course, but they never stay, do they?" Ireland blinked at him, silent, wondering where this was going. For a moment, all he saw when looking at North now was England: the same coldness in his emerald eyes, emotionlessness of his voice. Eventually he carefully asked, "Coineach, where's all this coming from? Why... why?" Northern Ireland only shrugged, not looking at Ireland at first but slowly turning to him as the older nation kept staring at him. His pale emerald gaze revealed nothing as he narrowed his eyes at his older brother. "I'm just telling the truth, Cearul," he said flatly, voice still devoid of emotion. "This is important information: you deserve to know. I would never keep important information like this from you, you know."

The way he said this sparked something in Ireland, and suddenly he understood what the boy was talking about. It hit him like lightning and felt like a stab to the heart, and his voice hoarse, he concluded, "You know about... about the-"

"The Northern Campaign?" North finished for him, averting his gaze again. "Yes, as well as the many other things you've kept secret from me. All the earlier actions of the IRA against me and my people. That they want a reunited Ireland -one nation as a whole, undivided. And that, though you never said it to my face, _you want that too._ Even though you know that means one of us -one of us being _me_\- has to die." He let out a shrill laugh, one filled more with anger than joy, one that came as a second stab to Ireland's heart. "What? Did you think I was too young to know about those things? Is that why you tried _so hard_ to keep it a secret from me? Well, I found out last time I did my paperwork -I asked if I could do it alone. I need to become more independent, after all. And then I just so happened to stumble across the things you -all of you- always kept secret from me."

"Coineach, I don't want you _gone!_" Ireland exclaimed, getting desperate now. North seemed determined to see only the bad in his brother now and jump to the wrong conclusions. "If anything, I want you to leave to United Kingdom and come live with me instead, but not-" He stopped abruptly. He realised suddenly -and it was only confirmed by the shimmer in North's eyes as he looked sideways at his older brother- that this was exactly what the young nation had been aiming for: for Ireland to say out loud what he'd kept secret for so many years. But why? And why now, all of a sudden? North just huffed and, with an accomplished smirk, muttered, "I knew it..." He got to his feet and went to stand in front of his older brother, and with a pang, Ireland realised the child didn't have to look up anymore when Ireland was sitting, and just the fact that he was growing up so fast triggered an uxpected wave of emotion in the old nation. The anger that lay in the boy's eyes turned every ounce of that emotion into pain. "Cearul, I don't want you and Arthur to fight anymore, got it? I _know _you've been fighting over me -it started the day you became a republic and I chose not to come with you- and I want it to end. I'm not a little kid anymore, Cearul -I'm thirty-three! I can make my own choices, as I did back then. You had no influence there, neither did Arthur or Dylan or Allistair or anyone! It's no use fighting over me." Ireland could only listen, stunned silent. He hadn't realised, not even close, how much Northern Ireland had grown up, physically _and_ mentally. The child sighed. "I just don't want you to fight anymore. It's been five years, and that's plenty. And I also want you to tell me the truth from now on -I know you've nothing to do with the IRA, so why keep it a secret? I'm old enough, Cearul, I can handle those things just fi-" He stopped suddenly, his expression growing softer, and there was not a trace of the anger left in his voice as he asked softly, "Cearul...?"

He gently placed his fingertips on his older brother's cheek, just below the eyes, and it was only then that Ireland noticed the single tear trailing down his face. North, seemingly shocked, carefully wiped it away and let his shoulders hang. "I'm sorry," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Cearul... I didn't mean to... to..." He trailed off, averting his gaze, and Ireland quickly shook his head and wiped away new tears that were threatening to fall. "No, Coineach, _I'm _sorry," he said, his voice quivering slightly beyond his control. "You're right: I should've seen sooner how much you've grown up. I shouldn't have kept these secrets from you and I shouldn't fight Arthur. And _this,_" he added, again having to wipe away tears as they just kept welling up in his eyes. "This is just me being _so angry_ at myself for not realising it sooner... For not realising I was hurting you all this time. I'm sorry, lad, as I should be. But not you -you've done nothing wrong, Coineach, nothing." He forced a smile, if only to show North that he was okay, that he wasn't angry at the young nation at all. "In fact, Coineach, I want to thank you for telling me this," he went on softly. "It might seem easy, but it takes some courage to confront someone like this. I know I wouldn't... I wouldn't dare to. Lad, I'm just proud of you now."

Northern Ireland kept staring his older brother in the eyes for a long moment, his pale eyes shimmering with relief and sadness. Then he bent forward and hugged Ireland tightly, a warm embrace the older nation didn't hesitate to return. It wasn't long until North started crying, letting out all the frustration and confusion and anger he'd bottled up for so long. Ireland had his arms loosely around the boy at that point in case he wanted to leave -as he wouldn't be surprised if he did- but North didn't let go of his big brother now. And for the first time ever, Ireland too allowed his tears to flow freely in North's presence, though they were silent tears. He still refused to cry in front of the boy no matter what. But it was almost as if North's outburst of anger followed by this embrace had somehow cleansed them both: they had been honest about their feelings for once, something neither had done for a long time. And it felt great. "I still love you, Cearul," Northern Ireland whispered eventually, resting his head on his brother's shoulder. "You're still my brother. I could never hate you, just remember that. I really love you."

"I love you too, Coineach," Ireland answered softly, enjoying the warmth of his little brother, his son or whatever he was, in his arms. "You wouldn't believe how much I love you, lad..." _But there's one secret I will still have to keep from you. Forever._

* * *

_It was the morning after France had come to London with Christmas '49, and Wales was sitting beside his hungover older brother, smirking a bit as Scotland had his face in his pillow, muttering more than talking. Especially after Wales told him about his last activity with their guest the evening before, he seemed to want to vanish right then and there. "I kissed that frog eater...?" he muttered, voice slightly slurred. Wales just snickered at the disgust in his voice. "Last time I did that was... was...er, a long time ago. Damn. An' ye said I __**didn't mind?**__" The younger nation nodded, patting his brother on the back reassuringly before breaking the worst news to him: "You seemed to __**enjoy**__ it." The Scot whimpered, mumbling that, though he didn't like it, it wasn't so surprising, actually. Wales' smirk grew wider. "Ah, yes, from what I've heard, he has an amazing set of lips there."_

_"Oh, he's great," Scotland answered immediately. "When it comes to using them, that is. But I'm too glad that marriage is over. Being forced into an alliance like that, laddie... 's not fun. 'Specially when ye dun'love the nation yer married to __**at all.**__" Wales nodded. He could understand that very well. "But still," he put in, though with a tone that made it obvious he wasn't trying to annoy his older brother on purpose. "You've experience with his kissing skills, so..."_

_"We were teens," Scotland muttered, making a 'whatever' gesture with his hands. "Of course we... experimented once or twice. What'd ye expect? But honestly, laddie, please... different subject. Is Artie awake yet? Cearul or Coineach... or the Frenchie?" Wales nodded, explaining that England, France and North were downstairs already, the older two trying to get over their hangover. "Cearul's still in bed," he added, "and I think he's staying there for a while. It seems we all forgot one of the major 'don'ts' when having a concussion like the one he has: alcohol. Especially this much of it. So we won't be seeing him until the afternoon for sure." A short silence fell then, and just when Scotland managed to push himself up and out of his bed, Wales mumbled softly, "Say, Al..." He then trailed off for a moment, but then just blurted it out, anyway. "If you don't want anything serious with France, anyway... Would you mind if... if __**I**__ try out those 'great' lips of his next time we get him drunk?" Scotland gave him a shove, calling him a little bastard, but he was smirking as he did, eyes twinkling mischievously._

That 'next time' wasn't until five months later. And if anyone had dared to tell Wales that now, four years later, he would be kissing the older nation still and enjoying it thoroughly, he'd have deemed them crazy. But yet here he was, doing exactly that. After that first drunken kiss, it had been at least a year until the next, but they weren't drunk then. Or three months after that, after an EU meeting. Or just before the next meeting, half a year later. Long story short, they had made it a bit more serious than that four months ago, and when one of the brothers had to go to France for business, it was only natural Wales volunteered to go. None of his brothers knew about this yet, though. For all they knew, the one drunken kiss was the only one to have ever happened. And that was all they needed to know. Ireland would only tell him to stop breaking the law, England wouldn't survive knowing his two brothers were in a relationship (though there was no incest involved in any way, which made it even more weird), Scotland would... well, he didn't know what the Scot's reaction would be, really. And Northern Ireland probably wouldn't care either way.

But really, both nations had decided it probably wouldn't last long, anyway. It wasn't exactly a relationship based on love, though it was definitely because of more than just the _amazing _kisses and all the rest that came with it. But they certainly didn't love each other. Not at all. Not even close. Though closer than they liked. Right now, Wales lay on his back on the couch, head resting on the other nation's lap as the Frenchman was reading a poem in French. It had been a long day, and they were both happy to be able to get some rest now. But France had insisted on teaching the British nation what real literature was (as if he didn't know) and was now doing this. Wales just smiled, eyes closed, enjoying the sound of his voice more than the incomprehensible poems. That voice had the rare quality that, if one listened to it long enough, it could almost make one fall asleep to it. Wales hardly noticed it when the Frenchman stopped talking and asked his guest, "Well? 'Ow do you like it, _mon cher?_"

Wales grinned. "I don't understand two shits of your language."

"But you do understand _one_ shit, zhen, and zhat's more zhan I can say about yours."

The Welshman hummed, nodding. He understood '_ca va'_, '_bien/bon'_ (though not the difference between those),_ 'mal' _and even a little sentence or two, as long as it started with '_je suis'_ or '_tu es'_. And that was all the Frenchman had been able to achieve in his hopeless attempts to teach the Welsh nation his language. Wales wouldn't even try the other way around, for he knew it was hopeless, anyway.

Wales then got up, saying, "But I did enjoy the sound of it,' before softly kissing his, dare he say it, boyfriend. He then smirked, asking, "You haven't told Monaco anything yet, either, have you?" France's eyes widened and he answered in hurriedly, "_Mon Dieu, non!_" (_Something else I figured out just now,_ Wales thought at this, _'Mon Dieu' must be 'My God' or something._) "_Ma soeur _would kill me if she knew about zhis! Zhough, 'onestly, she 'as no right to complain about me when I've seen 'er with a woman more zhan once, and zhat's just as much against zhe law. And you 'aven't said anyzhing to _tes freres_? Good. Let's keep it like zhat for a while yet, _non_? Maybe it'll be done before zhey find out." Wales snorted, holding back a short bout of laughter. He was optimistic, mostly, but not _that _optimistic. That was just foolish hope. He then sighed, and got up from the couch. "Ah well... I'll have to go back in two days. Let's just get dinner ready for now, and then I'll get back to that hotel. I'm sure the government won't appreciate it if I stay here for the night..." No, they definitely wouldn't. That was the only thing Wales was worried about when it came to this: the government would kill him for it, or at least give it a damn good try.

* * *

"Laddie, please!" Scotland complained to his little brother as they sat at a bar together. England was staring ahead of him without looking at anything, and the Scot was trying to snap him out of it. "Stop ruining the mood, Artie, an' lighten up! We have a week off while Dylan's in Paris and no lil' brother to look after with Coineach in Dublin -enjoy it!" England sighed and shrugged. He tried to force a smile, but his lips would only twitch. "I know," he mumbled, taking a sip of his ale. "I'm sorry. I just... Coineach seemed unusually down and easily aggravated lately._ Especially _when Cearul was the topic of conversation. I don't know if we did the lad a favour in bringing him there."

"Well, that's something they can sort out together, I'm sure," Scotland huffed, looking away from England. "Cearul knows better than to pick a fight with that kid, an' Coineach is old enough to decide on his own whether or not he wants to talk about things. They'll be fine. And look at the bright side, will ye?" England looked up curiously, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Scotland smirked. "There's always the wee cat for Coineach to talk to, if he doesn't want to talk to Cearul. Perhaps our big brother did something right after all, taking in that animal. And while Coineach is being down -I blame his age, what with puberty coming up sometime soon- Dylan is unusually happy lately. And Cearul is doing great and seems happy as well. And the same goes for ye an' I. _And we finally have a whole week off from work._ Long story short, Artie, everyone is doing just fine, even Coin, as his mood is probably just puberty-"

"He's too young for that yet, Allistair," England interrupted his older brother, a tiny smile finally playing at his lips. "He's still barely twelve. Give him a physical year or two more, and _then_ we'll go through hell and back again with that boy. But not yet. But you're right: everyone's fine, even him, even though he's not in the best of moods... and I suppose everyone has periods like that." He smiled, drank his ale and looked at Scotland, emerald eyes shimmering gratefully. "Thanks, Al. I'll try not to 'ruin the mood' anymore." But then he narrowed his eyes when Scotland didn't react at all, and he said, "But, you know... _you_ don't seem happy lately at all. What's wrong?"

Scotland only shrugged and avterted his gaze. "I guess I'm just tired, laddie, is all. That's why I'm trying to enjoy my time off while I still have it! I'm fine, as I said. Don't worry yerself 'bout me." But England shook his head and insisted, asking again what was bothering his older brother. But Scotland wouldn't give in. "I'm not going into that now, Artie," he answered, his voice getting edgy, a clear sign that England had to back off for now. "I'm trying to enjoy our free time, so let's not think about depressing stuff, aye? By the way, no matter what ye say, I'm taking ye to that lake close by tomorrow. The weather's too good to _not _go for a swim while we still have the time!" England cringed and could just barely surpress a soft whimper. If Scotland wanted to take him to a lake or the sea, he always managed to do so, and he somehow always managed to get his brother into the water as well. And he never liked it. But if it was to humor his brother, he would go along with it -he knew well enough how to keep himself from drowning nowadays. But the two times he nearly drowned lay fresh in his memory still, and he hated water more than anything.

"If you really want to..."

"Of course! And one day, we'll dive into Loch Ness and search for Nessie together, aye?"

"No way."

* * *

**Okay, so... Of _course_ France and Wales... isn't going to last long. No worries (or perhaps do worry if you somehow liked the idea). But once every century, a nation can get lonely and... stuff happens. I mean, I wouldn't want to live a century at all, let alone on my own. But it's not going to last long. At. All.**

**Though I'm not sure yet _how_ short it will be.**

**As for Scotland -you'll find out.**

**Thanks for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and please drop a short review on your way out!**


	16. Chapter 16

**And it's historical again! Hah, a lot of work went into this chapter, if only to look up events and years...**

**And it still isn't as long as I thought it would be. But whatever, really.**

**Crossfire, as per usual, thanks for the review! I know, France and Wales are an unusual couple, but I kinda fell in love with it, completely against my own will! I might use them again sometime, in one-shots or something...**

**Welll, there's some years in this chapter. So the Troubles are getting very close now. Before that, there's something else I must handle, and England ain't gonna like it *smirk***

**Now without further ado...**

* * *

By the end of 1956, a lot of things changed for the UK and Ireland. The first big problem to appear was the Suez crisis. They, together with France and Isreal, invaded Egypt to restore western control of the Suez Canal. They were forced to withdraw rather quickly. Britain lost it's status as one of the superpowers in the world. Now if that wasn't bad enough yet, England found a very sick France at his doorstep one afternoon, and the French nation wouldn't tell him why he came until the rest of the United Kingdom was there as well. They all came over as soon as they could, and it was two days after his arrival in London that France would tell the four brothers why he came.

"Zhe Suez Crisis 'as left me nearly bankrupt," he explained softly. "My leader suggested a way to restore my economy, but I wanted to tell you myself before zhe government 'ears zhe official proposal." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and just this made England's skin crawl. Whatever this 'proposal' was, it couldn't be good if the older nation reacted like this. Time seemed to come to a sudden halt when France blurted out, "My leader... 'e zhinks we should merge."

It was silent after this, and the three members of Great Britain stared wide-eyed at the nation sitting in front of them. Northern Ireland narrowed his eyes curiously, wondering why merging with the United Kingdom would save France's economy, but he remained silent, waiting for his brothers' reactions without asking questions. England was the first to find his voice again, though it was hoarse with shock. "Merge?" he echoed, his expression becoming one of pure horror. "You mean _marry_? That's the biggest load of nonsense I've ever heard! That would mean either me or Allistair would have to _marry you_, and that's never going to happen! You're my godforsaken _half brother,_ I'm not 'merging' with you!" France flinched at this, mumbling quickly that he would never want that, either. But before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by Scotland, who once again said he was all too glad not to be married to France anymore and wouldn't do it again for anything. "Look," he added, a hint of disgust in his voice as he spoke. "I like ye, yer a nice guy an' all that... But our people definitely don't like each other. Merging those, Francis, would lead to a civil war within _weeks._ Artie isn't marrying ye, an' neither am I."

"And what about _me?_" Wales then said to his older and younger brother, eyes narrowed in sheer anger. "How come _I'm_ not an option?"  
"Ye _want _t'marry France, then?" Scotland asked in pure surprise, shock and horror, those three emotions dominating in his eyes as he stared wide-eyed at his little brother. France shot Wales a hopeful glance, but the younger nation didn't look at him as he answered angrily, voice practically a yell, "Not in a million years, no! But neither do I appreciate being passed over like this. Merging with Britain would mean he has to marry either one of the two of _you_? There are other members of the United Kingdom, you know! Other members of _Britain._"

England looked taken aback by this and, both surprised by his brother's sudden anger and the fact that he still had to ask this question, he stammered, "D-Dylan, you are... This is the United _Kingdom_ we're talking about. The union between the Kingdom of England and the Kingdom of Scotland. You..." His voice grew softer as he spoke, realising now why Wales was angry but still finishing his explanation. "You're just a principality, Dylan." He realised too late that he'd used one wrong word in that sentence, a grave mistake, as Wales exploded in rage at this.

"_Just_ a prinicipality?!" he shrieked, voice high-pitched with rage, his eyes filled with mossy green flames. "_Just?!_ Oh, I see now! I'm not important enough, am I? I'm not even represented in our goddamn flag! Scotland, England, hell, even Northern Ireland is represented in the _Union Flag_, but _no_, not the Principality of Wales, of course not!" He folded his hands into fists, clenching them tightly. "But of course, I've known my place for ages already, don't worry. I had to pledge my allegiance to the _English _monarch all the way back when you _annexed _me. When you decided to travel the world and meet new nations and create new colonies, why not let _Dylan _look after our homeland? Because, obviously, you thought 'I'm the Kingdom of England, of course _I _should be the one to travel the seas for decades and leave my brother alone on the island!' And how about the World Wars? During the First, _you_ joined the navy and _Allistair _went to the front. And _Dylan _could once again stay home to 'defend our borders', when there was hardly anything to defend ourselves against! And during the Second, _you sent me away._ No, you couldn't even leave the defense of our homeland to me anymore, why would you? After all, you're kingdoms, and I'm _just_ a principality. Well _fuck you!_ You and your stupid _kingdoms!_" He then turned to France, who, through his shock at the Welshman's outburst, remained hopeful and looked up at the younger nation with that same hope shining in his deep blue eyes now. He hid his surprise as Wales leaned down and kissed him, the feeling of their lips touching like this only too familiar after two years. Their 'temporary' relationship had lasted longer than either of them had ever thought it would.

But apparently, it ended today, because when Wales moved away and looked at France, there was only fierce anger in his eyes. "You can forget that godforsaken union," he muttered. "Because I'm not marrying you, either. And stay the hell away from Coineach, don't even think about it! And I would savour this kiss, if I were you." He glared at France for a moment, then turned away. "It's the last you're ever getting from me." After having said this, he walked away, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving his brothers and France to stare after him in shock.

Wales had gone straight back to Cardiff after that, and refused to talk to anyone for days on end. France, in too bad a state for the brothers to send home right away, stayed in London for a little while longer. As they had pretty much given away their secret already now, France was forced to confess to the other members of the United Kingdom that he and Wales had been seeing each other for well over two years. When the initial shock about this faded, England and Scotland just shrugged it off as unimportant: their brother hadn't gotten in trouble with the government or the church for it so far, and honestly, they had done even worse things in the past. Northern Ireland, to their surprise, was actually disgusted by it: he, unlike them, had grown up with the government, the church and the entire society telling him every form of homosexuality was a sin. It took his two older brothers a little while to explain him that Wales, like them all, swung both ways, as was the nature of nations. What he'd done was against the current laws, yes, but completely normal for them. As long as they'd all keept their mouths shut, he would never get in trouble for it. North promised he would, be still called Ireland the very same day to talk to him about it. And though the Irishman wasn't pleased when he heard his little brother had broken the laws of the church like that, not to mention those of the government itself, he told North the same thing England and Scotland had. He also promised he would go check on Wales if he wouldn't contact any of them within two days, and ended the conversation with that. France just apologised and guessed that the stress of having the secret he'd kept for so long, exposed, was probably one of the reasons he'd reacted like this.

* * *

But that wasn't the only thing to happen that year. It was 12 December, and Northern Ireland was in Belfast with Scotland. It was early in the morning, and both nations were still sleeping soundly. North was just turning around in his sleep, when he woke with a jolt. He couldn't breathe for a moment, his chest tight, a stab in his shoulder and his right hip burning with pain. Then he gasped, the pain getting worse with the second. He struggled to find his voice at first, but then called out to Scotland as loud as he could. He didn't know what was going on and he was terrified. Scotland ran into his room after about a minute, still dazed with sleep but trying hard to comfort his little brother. "Ye'll be alright now, wee brother," he tried to reassure him, but worry seeped through in his voice. "I'm here now." North just clung to him, holding on to his brother tightly, with a determination to not let go as though his life depended on it. And as the pain hit its maximum, that was exactly what it felt like.

The minutes it took for the afwul pain to subside felt like a small eternity to the young nation and his older brother, and when it did, the boy was gasping for breath, staring teary-eyed at Scotland. The Scot, ready to comfort the child after this horrible start of the day, watched in silent surprise as the fear and sadness made way for anger and a fierce determination. "I want to know what happened," was the first thing North said, muttering, his voice raspy. "I want to know exactly what happened _right now._" He got up, quickly swung his legs over the side of his bed, then steadily paced out of his bedroom, leaving Scotland stunned for a moment. The older nation shook his head to clear away any lingering confusion, and followed his little brother quickly. "Coineach!" he called after him as he spotted the young Irish nation quickly moving down the stairs. "W-what're ye goin' t'do, laddie?"

"Call Cearul, of course," was the boy's harsh response. "I know only one thing that could've caused this, and he would know more about it."  
"It's not even six in the mornin', lad!" Scotland tried to tell him. "I dun'think Cearul's even awake yet! No, how 'bout we make sure 'twas really the IRA before bothering him about it, aye?" But Northern Ireland wouldn't listen. He scowled, walking straight to the phone on his livingroom wall, ignoring the burning remaints of the pain in his hip completely. He quickly dialed Ireland's number, waiting impatiently as he listened to the annoying constant beeping of the phone for his brother to pick up. But even after he'd waited well over a minute, there was no answer and the call ended automatically. A furious growl rose in his throat, but before he could dial the number a second time, Scotland grabbed him by the arms and stopped him. "Coineach," he said, slowly and clearly, his voice commanding in a way that forced the boy to look at him and listen. "It's too early, he's not picking up. Just take a moment to recover from this attack and rest, okay? Ye can ask him everythin' ye want later. Also, yer shoulder's begun to bleed, so lemme take a look at that before ye do anythin' else, understood?" Reluctantly, North nodded.

In the end, Northern Ireland didn't even need to speak to Ireland to get a confirmation that this was the IRA's doing: the IRA announced it themselves with a statement issued that same day. _ "Spearheaded by Ireland's freedom fighters, our people have carried the fight to the enemy…Out of this national liberation struggle a new Ireland will emerge, upright and free. In that new Ireland, we shall build a country fit for all our people to live in. That then is our aim: an independent, united, democratic Irish Republic. For this we shall fight until the invader is driven from our soil and victory is ours"_ was what it said, and North didn't believe a word of it. He read it off a paper a minister had handed to him as he went to the Parliament building around noon to get more information. Furious, he crumpled the paper and threw it against a wall, wishing there was a fireplace he could burn it in. "Derry, Newry, Enniskillen, Magherafelt and Armagh!" he yelled at the humans around him, humans he thought had done to little to prevent this. "_Five_ locations were attacked this morning! A courthouse burned to the ground! And you're telling me there was _no way _to prevent this from happening?!"

"To be fair, Northern Ireland," one of the men spoke. "We managed to beat off the attack in Armagh." North clenched his jaws tightly, relying on all his self-restraint not to attack the man right then and there. "I don't care!" he yelled at him, voice dripping with fury. "You should've prevented it altogether! It's not like we didn't see an attack like this coming!"  
"_You_ did nothing to prevent it either, did you?" another man said, narrowing his eyes at the child. "We all knew something was coming, but when and how, we just didn't know. You cannot blame us if _you_ hadn't even figured it out yourself."

"And how much information did you give me?" North demanded, glaring at the human. "Not enough, not nearly everything you had! If only you all allowed me to get more information on these things, maybe I_ would_ have figured it out!" The same man as before snorted, looking down at Northern Ireland with his chin raised a bit and a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Frankly, you're too young for all that: you're just a kid, after all."

North clenched his jaws again, baring his teeth and folding his hands into tight fists. He just reached the man's chest, he still had a childlike face, but he was _no_ kid. "I'm thirty-five!" he snapped at the human. "Only two goddamn years younger than you! Who the _fuck_ cares if I don't look like it, I'm an adult! Not only that, _I'm your nation_. You have to damn well listen to me if I tell you to do something, not the other way around. _I_ am the one with the most authority in this room, and don't you forget it!" He took a deep breath then to calm himself, and exhaled slowly. Closing his eyes, he focused on trying not to yell anymore when he would speak again, and when he opened them again he said: "Use the Civil Authorities Act. The Special Powers Act. Any suspicious republican must be imprisoned. Put them behind bars, make sure they cannot do anything like this again -_and don't give them a trial._"

* * *

North's order was followed nine days later, on 21 December 1956. Hundreds of republicans were arrested as the young nation had said they should be -without any trial. When Ireland heard about this, he was enraged, and could just manage to stay calm in front of North, though he made it clear to the child that he was anything but pleased. The other members of the UK, too, thought this action was a little too dramatic. But it was the first thing North was doing completely on his own, and they decided to give him the chance to handle it all without their interference. "Your government isn't the only one punishing the IRA for this," Ireland tried to tell North, and their three other brothers only listened in silence. "So am I and my government. But, Coineach, you have to give them a trial at least! Many of these men are innocent and-" But the boy wouldn't listen. He was too angry... and too scared. In the statement of the IRA, only a 'new Ireland' and the 'Irish Republic' were mentioned. If they succeeded, he knew with all his heart, he would cease to exist. And, judging by the use of 'new Ireland', so would his oldest brother. He had to protect his and Ireland's lives here, and he would do anything for that.

The next year was the worst. Northern Ireland had never seen so much battle within his own borders as he did in 1957. On the first day of the year, to IRA members were killed, the others of that group chased out of Northern Ireland and back over the border to the Republic by 400 Royal Ulster Constabulars and British Soldiers. Another 340 incidents occured over the course of the year. Northern Ireland wouldn't talk to his oldest brother anymore at all. The Irish Republican Army was the enemy and, to him, so was the Irish Republic. Eventually Wales, Scotland and even England tried every day to pursuade him to at least talk to Ireland again. The oldest nation couldn't take it, knowing that North was close to hating him at this point for something he didn't do, and he was beginning to blame himself for it, even though he was fighting as hard as North was to stop the IRA.

By 1958, there were plenty of members of the IRA hoping to stop the Border Campaign already, and the Cork IRA actually quit completely. Halfway through that year, at least 500 republicans were arrested, not only in Northern Ireland, but also in the Republic. It was only after that, that North decided he was willing to talk to Ireland again. Seeing the boy again for the first time after nearly a year, Ireland was shocked to see he was beginning to look less like a child quickly. He'd grown a little taller, almost reaching up to England's shoulders by now, and his face was growing thinner, less childlike. Instead of the pride he thought he'd feel, Ireland felt only numb as he realised the child was becoming a teenager. And soon after that, no doubt, he'd be an adult. Northern Ireland wasn't too comfortable yet talking about personal matter with Ireland now, but he was open to discussing the Border Campaign. And when the older nation once again reassured him that he had nothing to do with the IRA's actions, North nodded and said he knew, and he wasn't blaming Ireland anymore.

In the end, it took until 1961 for the campaign to be over. There had been 18 deaths, which the nations had to admit wasn't too bad, considering this campaign, which could be considered a mild war, had lasted five years. But it wasn't until late February 1962 that the two Irelands spoke to each other on friendly terms again, and by the time that day came, North had the physical age of thirteen already.

"You're growing up quickly, lad," Ireland said eventually, looking at North for a moment then averting his gaze. To his surprise, Northern Ireland shook his head. "I don't want to grow up yet..." he whispered, and Ireland looked at him in confusement. "Not if it's like this," the child went on, and then, out of the blue, he swung his arms around Ireland. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the older nation, relaxing completely for the first time in months. He heard Ireland's heart beating steadily, and felt his own just as strong, and he knew he'd accomplished his task of these past few years. He had protected them both, kept the two of them alive and healthy. He felt Ireland's fingers moving slowly through his hair before he was hugged back, and he smiled. He'd really done it. "I told you before, didn't I?" he said softly, voice barely above a whisper as pressed just a little closer to his brother. "You're still my big brother, and I'll never hate you. I still love you."

* * *

**Dylan was bound to explode sometime, in my head at least. It must be really frustrating, I suddenly realised one day, to be the principality among kingdoms in the United _Kingdom_. No wonder, really, that when I say 'Wales' to some people, they don't even know what it is... which is completely pathetic, and I do get pissed off sometimes because of it. But it's not _that _strange...(no, scratch that, it totally is)**

**As for the Border Campaign, codenamed Operation Harvest, if I'm not mistaken, it was the longest campaign of the IRA until the Troubles. I honestly expected there'd be more deaths, but any life lost is terrible. I've read that 5000 or more people came to some of the funerals for IRA members that were killed. That's amazing.**

**But I'll leave it at that for now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you so much for reading! And happy Easter!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Wow, I didn't even realise how long this chapter is...**

**Consider it an Easter present, then. It starts out pretty light-hearted for a change. But... you know me. My writing, at least. And I'm sorry.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! The beginning of this chapter might just help the nerves about what is soon to come...**

**Well, I hope you'll like this chapter. There's something in it I don't think many people have thought about yet in this fic.**

* * *

Summer 1962 was the first time Northern Ireland went to visit the North-Americans in their own countries. First he, along with his older brothers (except for Ireland, who had chosen to stay home) stayed with the USA for about a week, in which America took North for a tour in two major cities, then at the end of the week they'd all meet at a beach and from there on they would go with Canada and stay there for a week. Northern Ireland knew beaches, of course, being part of an island, but having only the northern coastline, he didn't have really warm beaches himself. America did, which was why he enjoyed going there most. He could dive into the sea and not get even a little cold, and he was amazed by that. Stunned at first, he was now swimming happily through the waves, letting himself be carried by some of them then diving into them again. The older three just lay on the sand, enjoying a warmth and strength of sunlight they rarely had on their own islands. America was just watching, amused at how much they enjoyed temperatures that were normal to him in the summer -and sometimes even got on his nerves. It was just a matted of what one was used to, he decided, and these Brits certainly weren't used to this. Meanwhile he was keeping an eye on North to make sure he wouldn't get swept away by any waves. Canada would be here within the next hour, together with France -something he'd kept a secret from his guests. He wanted the Frenchman's presence to be a surprise.

"So how are ya enjoying your vacation, guys?" he asked, smirking, as England sighed deeply and contently, smiling with his eyes closed as he lay in the warms rays of the sun. "Once in a while, this is great..." he mumbled, to which Wales and Scotland could only agree. They'd had a severe lack of vacation over the years, ever since the start of the war. A proper vacation had been nearly three decades ago, and they were all stunned when Ireland, who'd been in the same situation, had chosen _not _to take this chance. America snickered. But he fell silent as his eyes once again fell on the scars on his adoptive family's bodies. Scratches and old cuts along Scotland's sides, an old gunshot wound in Wales' abdomen, without a doubt the one that had crippled him for decades, a gruesome-looking scar over England's heart and a long, now-thin scar over his abdomen that had once nearly killed him. With a chill America recognised that scar as the one inflicted by the Battle of the Somme on 1 July 1916, a time when a then blind Scotland had been alone with England and, in complete darkness and horrible panic, had to revive his little brother with his own two hands. America shook his heads, trying to shake off those thoughts. This was a moment without worries, a time of joy and peace and happiness. But as much as he wanted these nations to enjoy themselves for once in this godforsaken century, he silently wished they'd have kept their shirts on, if only to hide the scars of darker days.

A drenched North then came running up to them, looking more like the child he was than he had in a long time, smiling wide and his eyes shining. "Alfred, Arthur!" he called, and England opened one eye -and regretted it a second later, when North accidentally kicked sand into his face. The Englishman spluttered sand out of his mouth and rubbed the sand from his eye as he sat up. "Coineach!" he complained loudly, though there was no real anger in his voice. "Be a little more careful, kid!" North just smiled sheepishly and apologised, sitting down beside his older brother. "I just wanted to ask you and Alfred to come swimming with me for a moment!" England paled visibly, but said nothing. America, however, shook his head, saying he had to wait for his twin -Canada wouldn't recognise Wales and Scotland as they were now. "Two oversized lobsters, who would ever think they're nations?"

"Bugger off, laddie!" Scotland laughed. "We're just enjoying the sun while we still can!"  
"You won't enjoy it anymore later today, if you're not getting into the shade right now!" America warned them, a hint of amusement in his voice. No, those two were way beyond saving. They already had a sunburn. As did Northern Ireland, though not as much as his two older brothers. The only one of them not affected by this yet was England, for some reason. England then grudgingly agreed to come swimming with his little brother, and America stared after him, surprised. Didn't everyone enjoy cooling down on a hot day like this? But England looked a bit tentative as he got into the water, and he did so slower than the eager little Northern Ireland. And then it hit him, somehow, without any particular reason -England was scared of water. The second he came to this conclusion, America remembered being little, and swimming in a lake during a summer as hot as this one. England had stayed on a safe distance from the water. In harbours and on his ship back in the day, he seemed comfortable enough so long as he wasn't anywhere near the edge of it. He always kept his distance from water as much as he could, never stepping into deeper water than a knee-high stream. Why America had never realised this before about his former guardian, he had no idea, but he wished he had. Maybe he could've helped him. But at least England seemed capable enough of swimming, whether he liked it or not. Northern Ireland seemed blissfully unaware of it all, though, otherwise he wouldn't have asked England to join him at all. America watched them for a few minutes longer, and eventually, when they both seemed to have fun together -even England- he turned away again with a smile. Canada should be here by now...

Almost as if on cue, he saw a familiar shape further down the beach, running his way, another shape behind him, a bit slower. "Alfred!" America's younger twin brother called as he got within earshot of his brother. "Hi! Sorry we're late!" The moment he was beside his brother and adoptive 'uncles', he grimaced as he saw the red hue on the latters' shoulders, faces and chests. But his expression was normal again the second they both opened their eyes and looked at him, greeting the young nation. Then when France was within sight, Wales got tense, and Scotland shot his younger brother a short, worried glance, confusing the twin nations. "H-hi, France," Wales greeted the older nation awkwardly, France just mumbling a similar greeting. America glanced from Wales to France and back again, unable to hold his curiosity. "What's going on here?" he questioned bluntly, and both older nations looked away uncomfortably at this. Scotland patted America on the shoulder, beckoning for him to get a little closer.

"It's been nearly six years since the two of 'em have been seein' each other, is all," he explained in a soft whisper, barely audible. America frowned and commented in the same hushed voice that they must've seen each other during meetings, and even if they hadn't, there was no need to be awkward just because they hadn't seen each other in a while. "No, laddie, _seein' each other,_" Scotland tried to clarify, giving the young American a meaningful look. America then turned to look at France and Wales, who were now uncomfortably staring at each other a bit, and when he suddenly realised what the Scot meant, a slight blush crept onto his face, and he was for once happy to have a slight sunburn as well. Out of everyone, he had never imagined those two to... It was disturbing just to think about it.

Thankfully, Canada sat down next to America now, getting his mind off that immediately by simply chatting. "So where's Arthur?" he asked eventually, looking around a bit. He spotted him the same moment America answered. The Englishman was jumped by Northern Ireland, tackled, almost. With a yelp, he fell backwards into the water with North on top of him, but quickly surfaced again, spluttering water out of his mouth and lecturing his little brother almost immediately. Though judging by North's grin, it wasn't too serious. "But he hates water!" Canada laughed, still looking at the two. "How did Coineach get him to come along?"

"You can pronounce that name?!" America exclaimed, staring at his younger twin wide-eyed. "I always just use that _normal_ version, Kenneth! Damn, why can't Irish people have normal names, honestly?" Canada rolled his eyes and commented that it wasn't hard, and that, technically, 'Coineach' was a Scottish name. When America still stared at him in complete confusement, he sighed and said that at least he _listened _to people when they tried to explain things to him, like how to pronounce a name and the origin of said name. Not only that, he was _curious_ and _asked _things. "You should try that sometime, Alfred. It works wonders."  
"And how did you know 'bout Artie hating water already? I figured it out just now!"  
"Again, Alfred, I watch and observe. I figured he couldn't swim two centuries ago. For someone who cares about his adoptive family so much, you're really uninterested in them, you know," Canada mumbled, looking at America with a surprised shimmer in his eyes. He knew America could be a little too focused on himself and didn't always show interest in others, but that it even went as far as this, he'd never know. He just sighed and shook his head, deciding to go to a different topic now, or he'd get the urge to punch America withing five minutes or less. "Francis and I made lunch for all of us together, so when you're hungry, there's sandwiches in that bag over there." America almost immediately dug into it.

* * *

That night, still at America's place, Scotland was complaining to England about he didn't even have a slight sunburn. "Not even a lil' bit!" he whined. "Dylan, Coineach an' I are completely red, an' ye just have _a tan!_" England shrugged, not really impressed by it. "Maybe you should have listened to America," he said calmly, "when he tried to tell you for the third time that you should get into the shade for a bit."  
"But ye didn't!" the Scot went on, clearly jealous now of his little brother's ability to not get burned as quickly as them. "An' yer just a shade -or three- darker than ye usually are! That's hardly fair, is it? C'mon, laddie, what's the secret?"

"I've mediterranean blood, remember?" England said, rolling his eyes. "Rome? I think it's because of that, and if not, I have no idea either." Wales just shrugged: he didn't really care that he was burned red as a lobster. In fact, he liked it. "At least now I can shed the skin France defiled this afternoon," he said with a grimace, thinking back to when France decided to fall back into old habits for just a few seconds when the nations had lunch together. He wasn't about to admit how much he'd liked it... but the others were well aware of that already, anyway. Except, luckily, Northern Ireland. Thank God he was young enough to not understand certain things yet, not even if they happened right under his nose. England just barked out a short laugh at his brother's disgusted expression. "You can say that again!" he laughed, then raised one eyebrow and asked with a hint of mischief, "_Collarbone,_ really?" If he wasn't red already, Wales would be now, and with slight anger he said quickly, a little defensively, "I-I don't exactly _pick them myself_, you know! It's not like I can help it!"

"Help what?" North asked, tilting his head a little and staring at his older brothers curiously. He didn't really understand what they were talking about, and they didn't seem ready to tell him. "What did France mean when he said 'zhe collarbone still works, hm'? And why on Earth did you shiver when it's blazing hot outside? You're not getting sick, are you?" Wales just remained silent and turned away from North uncomfortably. Scotland moved his arm as though he wanted to pat the boy on the shoulders, then remembering that North was as burned as he was and stopping himself, simply saying, "Ye'll find out when yer a lil' older, laddie. For poor Dylan's sake, I'll just keep my mouth shut from here on." North just huffed, though Scotland's words and Wales' reaction were answer enough to him: adult stuff. And with that, he could figure it out on his own by now... and then wished he hadn't. "You know what?" the child said quickly, voice a little higher than usual. "Let's just go to Canada tomorrow and forget all about today... Being nations, I'm sure the sunburn will fade overnight, and France will be going home tomorrow. Let's just finish our vacation without any other awkward things, alright?"

"Good luck, kid," England mumbled, flopping down onto his bed and staring at the ceiling. "It seems that every single minute during this vacation, we're the United Awkward Kingdom, and right now, Dylan wears the crown."  
"Shut up, Artie!"  
"Yeah, goodnight to you, too, Dylan."

* * *

The years after that were fairly peaceful. Northern Ireland once ran into his old friend, Caitlin, who was no longer one of his 'peers'. She was now in her late twenties, married for two years and expecting her first child. They talked for a little while, reminiscing, but then parted ways again. That was the first time North experienced first-hand what Scotland had tried to tell him so long ago: nations and humans didn't mix. While friendships could last for years, one day they would fade, without fail, and the nation would end up alone again. North then decided that, though he wouldn't stop trying to be friends with his people, he wouldn't get too close to them. He didn't want to get hurt in the end, and he knew he would. Other nations, those would be his closest friends from now on, for they would never die, just like him. In 1966, North met Japan for the first time when England took him to his old friend for two weeks. The country was beautiful, he thought, and the personification was nice enough as well. Though he had weird little quirks that North took a while to get used to. For one, he hated being touched in any way. He did not shake hands when greeting someone, he bowed. And he never said 'no', though he had lost of ways to say something that meant 'no'. But he never directly spoke that word. He was a bit weird, North decided at the end of the two weeks, in a plane back home.

It wasn't until 1967 that something truly important and life-changing happened in the family. North was glad to have had five fairly normal years, but when this change came, he welcomed it. He knew there was no way of stopping it, so he would make the best of it. Wales and Scotland thought the same thing, and as did Ireland. England, however, couldn't think that way for now.

"This is _not_ a nation!" England exclaimed, pointing at the tiny baby asleep in a craddle in his Prime Minister's office. They were trying to dump that kid on him just because it was found on a goddamn steel platform which some idiot had declared 'independent'. The Principality of Sealand, what utter nonsense! At least, that's the way he saw it. The Prime Minister did not think the same, though everyone agreed that this new nation was complete bullocks. The sudden appearance of a child without parents there did change the minds of some of the humans involved in it. "That's _not_ a nation," England said again, raising his voice even higher. "That's _not _family of mine, I'm _not _taking care of it!"

"If he truly isn't a nation -which I doubt he is- it will only be temporary, Arthur," the Prime Minister insisted. "But if I have to be frank, I would say he does look like you." England tensed, pressing his lips together to prevent himself from saying anything or just plain screaming -he honestly didn't know what would happen if he opened his mouth now. The little boy did look like him, a lot even. In fact, he was his spitting image. But he didn't want the little prick to be his family. Mainly, he didn't want the little prick to be _his_. That was what really scared him. So right now, denying the fact that this child represented a nation -even if it was an unrecognised and unofficial one- and that, most likely, it was his _own child_, just felt best right now, safest. "Arthur," the Prime Minister spoke again, looking at his nation intently. "If this boy turns out to be one of your kind, I would very much appreciate it if you were to look after him until he is old enough to take care of himself." With a glance at Northern Ireland, fourty-six and still not old enough to be left alone in his capital, he added, "Even if that may take a while yet. If he turns out to be human, we will have him adopted by a human family. However, for now and until we have certainty, he is under your care. And that's the end of it. Just hold him for a moment, will you? I'm certain he'll like you."

Tentatively, England did as his boss told him to. The child started squirming immediately, waking up slowly. He blinked his dark blue eyes open, stared up at the older nation holding him, then promptly started crying. It wasn't a cry of fear at seeing a stranger, nor one of sadness or frustration at being woken up like this. No, it was without a doubt the cry of anger and hatred, frustration at being carried by someone he hated. Even if he'd known that someone for just a few seconds, and even if that someone was quite possibly his father. Scotland quickly stepped in, worldlessly taking the baby from his little brother's arms and gently soothing him. The baby stopped crying within seconds, his eyes fixed on England, and it looked almost as if he were glaring. "Oh, yeah, he really likes me," England muttered, returning the glare tenfold. "He loves me, alright. I'm sorry, but this isn't going to work."  
"It will have to work for now. If it is necessary, I'm sure Allistair can look after the boy, am I right?" Scotland just nodded, trying to get the little boy back to sleep. The Prime Minister sighed. "Good. I will check in daily to follow his progress, and after a month we will see if we can figure out what he is. Also, one more thing: one of my staff members decided to give him a name, and he listens to that already, so it would be best if you keep using it. Good luck looking after Peter for now."

* * *

The next day, Ireland came over to London, where the whole family was right now. For some reason, England had wanted Ireland's opinion on the nation/human matter as well, and Ireland just really wanted to see his possibly-nephew. And of course, he never turned down the oppertunity to spend time with North lately. In the twenty-four hours the child had been with them now, England hadn't once uttered the word 'Sealand' and only rarely refered the the child as Peter, usually just as 'that kid' or 'the little pest'. And none of his brothers should ever mention their likeness to each other, and definitely _never _say anything that might imply the little boy could be England's. Ireland wasn't informed of this yet.  
"Well, lad, I think I must congratulate ye!" the Irishman said, smiling warmly as he gently stroked the baby's cheek. His skin was warm and soft, and reminded Ireland of North's first year. He, too, had been sleeping most of the time, like this one. "If he looked any more like ye, ye'd be twins, dammit! Finally a real father, instead o'just an adoptive one, hm?"

"That's _not _my kid," England said immediately. "He's not. He's not even a nation. I told you, he's just staying here until we can prove he's human." Ireland just stared at him, wondering why he got so defensive. Ireland had felt _great_ when he first heard North might be his son, though a bit disappointed knowing he couldn't keep him or even claim him as his. England, for all his troubles with his colonies, had loved raising those kids. If he had one of his own now, an actual blood relative, why deny it like this? Then, when England looked at the little boy and Ireland saw the look in his eyes, it hit him. "Yer scared," he stated bluntly, and England stammered words of denial. But Ireland knew better than that. He placed his hand on his younger brother's shoulder, pulling him along into the hallway, away from their brothers and the child. There, he looked England straight in the eyes, and saw indeed nothing but fear in their emerald depths. The younger nation let out a shaky sigh, shaking his head slowly. "I never asked for this, Cearul," he said hoarsely, voice barely even a whisper. "I don't... I don't _want _this, brother, I-I..." A desperate glow lay in his eyes now, his breathing growing slightly faster. "I can't look after that kid, Cearul, I can't! And I _cannot be his father._ That's impossible. I would know, wouldn't I, if I was? But thing is, I -I don't know! I simply don't know if I am or not... and it's... it's scary. Do you have any idea what it's like?" He fell silent rather abuptly, staring his older brother in his pale eyes, knowing now that this was _exactly _what Ireland had felt like for so long. The uncertainty was terrifying and it _hurt_, it physically hurt. England averted his gaze, letting his shoulders hang and mumbling, "I'm sorry..."

But Ireland just pulled him into a hug, and despite the lack of words, it just felt so reassuring. More than words could ever do, in fact, and England closed his eyes, sighing, and leaned against his older brother. For all their fighting, all their differences and apparent hatred, they still cared a lot about each other. "Ye know better than anyone here how to raise a kid, y'know," Ireland said softly after two minutes. "Ye really dun'have to worry 'bout that. But if ye really want... I could help ye. I'd be happy to." England nodded, thanking him softly. He had no idea why, but right now, he really needed Ireland. He just really needed his big brother.

The two then went back into the livingroom, where Northern Ireland was carefully playing with the kid -with _Sealand_, under the watchful eyes of Scotland and Wales, who had to remind him to be a little more careful sometimes. England took a deep, nervous breath, then slowly got a little closer to the two children, careful not to disturb them too abruptly. Mostly, he wanted Sealand to stay in the good mood he was in now, though he wasn't so confident about that. As England knelt down beside the two, North gave Sealand a last, gentle and playful poke in the shoulder, then took a step back silently. Sealand turned his gaze to England curiously, some of the joy already fading from his eyes. "See?" England said to Ireland, looking at him over his shoulder. "He hates me! He hates the very sight of me -how am I supposed to look after him if he becomes unhappy just being near me?" But then he shook his head, took another deep breath, forced a smile onto his face -with a surprising amount of warmth for a fake smile- and gently scooped the newborn up. "Hey there, kid," he greeted him softly, all his frustration and uncertainty of earlier hidden, not a trace of it to be heard in his voice. But even so, the moment he was lifted by the nation, Sealand started crying again. England turned to Ireland for help now, silently staring at him for a moment, and Ireland felt a stab of pity for him as he saw desperationg growing ever stronger in his emerald eyes. "N-now what?" England demanded then, voice quivering, as Sealand kept on squirming and crying. "N-now what am I supposed to do?" He really had no clue, and if he had to be honest, neither did Ireland. There was no way around it anymore now: Sealand hated England, nothing more to it. But when his little brother looked to him for help like this, even if it was England, he just couldn't do nothing. "Just talk to him," he advised after a moment of hesitation. England immediately demanded what in the name of everything sacred he was supposed to say to a crying baby that hated his guts -and Ireland just shook his head. "I don't know, laddie. But just... just talk."

Unsure of what to do, England turned back to the squirming Sealand, saying softly, "Hey, kid, please-" but Sealand only cried louder. England just flinched. "Lad, please, I haven't even done anything! Kid, please don't- Peter... please, Peter, don't be like that..." Finally there was some change, Sealand slowly grew silent, opening his eyes and staring up at England, which seemed to give the older nation new hope. "I know you don't like me, Peter, I really do," England went on, the panic slowly fading from his voice now that he'd gotten Sealand quiet. "But hating me won't get you anywhere. I'm sorry for saying so quickly that you're not one of us -I see now that you are, even if you aren't a nation. But you are, no doubt possible, our family, and I'm sorry for denying that. I know you don't like me, and I suppose you have your reasons for that... but you're stuck with me either way. Don't make it so hard on yourself and me, please. Just... just give me a chance. I promise I will do my best." And though the child couldn't speak yet, and England seriously doubted he'd understood everything, the answer still lay clear in Sealand's dark eyes: _that's a deal._ England genuinely smiled at this, and as he felt a few tears of relief pricking in his eyes, he said in a hoarse whisper, "Thank you... Peter. And I promise you, kid, that though I have no idea whether I really am or not, even if everyone else seems to think I am, I will try to be... to be a good father to you."

Ireland, relieved for his little brother that this had actually worked, looked to his side at the others now. Wales was smiling at this heart-warming scene, also happy for his little brother that this was solved now. Scotland also looked genuinely pleased, though something else flashed in his eyes for a moment, an emotion he blinked away too quickly for Ireland to recognise. Then, when the Irishman's eyes fell on the smiling, overjoyed Northern Ireland, there was again that terrible stab of agony in his heart. Happy as he was now, the achingly familiar pain returned as strong as ever when he looked at North now -if not stronger. Despite what England thought, and though Ireland would never underestimate the pain and fear his little brother must be going through now, England's situation and emotions connected to it were nothing like Ireland's. England was, most likely at least, a father now, while he didn't want to be. The same went for Ireland, only he wanted nothing more than to take on the role of North's father, knowing he never could. Ireland would never think that being forced into something like this completely against your will was any easier than what he was going through, but there was simply no comparing the two situations.

* * *

Ireland stayed with the others in London that day, on a matras on the livingroom floor while Scotland slept on the couch beside him. But first, he just had to ask him. "Say, Al," he began slowly, casually, not wanting to alarm his brother. "Ye didn't seem too pleased that Sealand is here now... Family gettin' too big?" Scotland shook his head, mumbling that he didn't think that at all -though now that the family counted six members, it was indeed getting a little big for a nation family. He stayed silent after that, and Ireland narrowed his eyes curiously. He'd seen that flash of emotion multiple times today, the first being when Sealand an England made their 'deal'. Every time England was with Sealand after that, and even once when Ireland was talking to North, there had been something in Scotland's eyes which the Scot always quickly blinked away, hoping apparently that no one would notice. "But, Allistair," Ireland said. "There's definitely something going on, and-"

"There's not, Old Man," Scotland interrupted Ireland now. "Really. I'm just as glad as ye are that Peter an' Artie are at least tryin' to get along. Nothing's wrong with me, I'm fine."  
Scotland then turned on his side, back turned to Ireland, and the Irishman got the message loud and clear: don't bother me anymore. And then it suddenly hit him. He remembered the look in his younger brother's eyes perfectly, and now he finally realised what it was. It fit, he thought, with the situations in which Scotland had looked at him or England like that. He had just never thought his younger brother would be bothered by it like this. Not once had he considered it, but remembering other moments now, too, it just seemed so obvious he was almost ashamed he hadn't realised sooner. He had noticed Scotland tried to surpress those feelings, tried to be happy for his brothers, but Ireland understood how hard it must be sometimes -and especially now, with Sealand joining the family like this.

It had been nothing but deep, bitter envy.

* * *

**Hmmm... poor Al. I gave a hint to this a long time ago, if I remember correctly. Poor lad is more bothered by it all than he lets on.**

**And, though I don't think I'll let Sealand play a major role, his appearance does trigger certain things, and not just from Scotland, as you can probably imagine. It already did...**

**Thanks for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and please leave a review! Oh, and I hope you all enjoyed Easter!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Another long chapter, and trust me when I say this one is not without heartbreak. I nearly killed my own feelings writing the end of it. It's ridiculous to cry over your own writing (unless it's terrible, then you have reason to) but I nearly did... But it's as I always say, "Writing is feeling. You cannot write emotion without feeling it through your characters' eyes."  
And this wasn't nice to feel. But it turned out exactly as I hoped, and I'm very glad about that! Now I just hope you readers will like it (and dread it) as much as I did!**

**Crossfire, I cannot say it enough, thank you for the review. It does sometimes bother me that you're the only reviewer I have, but you're right: at least I have plenty of readers! And that's what I do it for. Hell, even if I had only one reader, I would continue to write this story. For I'm also doing it for _me_, after all. That's what all writers should do.**

***Edited the chapter a bit. I noticed that several _sentences _somehow got deleted...**

**Now I won't make this any longer. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'm sorry if my heartbreak prediction came true.**

* * *

_Nobody knows exactly when the Troubles started. Nowadays, people state it started in 1968, with the civil rights movement and the growing tension between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland. Some say they started in 1966, some in 1969. But one could say the Troubles started long before that, all the way back in 1921, when Ireland was partitioned. For have the Troubles not been lurking in the hearts of the people ever since this day, like a vast stormcloud waiting to release its thunder? We will never know when exactly the Troubles started, but one thing we are sure of:_

_The thunder came in 1968._

Northern Ireland was watching the civil rights march on 24 August as they arrived in Dungannon. Much to his dismay, not everyone appeared unharmed: he knew the loyalists among his people were against this march, but to know they had actually attacked them still came as a shock. Then again, he realised, it did explain the stinging in his abdomen earlier today, which he had initially passed off as a regular stomach ache. North then looked to his right, staring up at England. The older nation was staying in Belfast together with North for two weeks, but when they heard about what was going on, naturally they came to see if everything went alright. England may not like these people too much, for the same reasons as the loyalists disliked them, he knew well enough as North did that these were still Northern Irish people, and they had a right to be protected by the government as much as any other. But today, either the Royal Ulster Constabulars had failed to keep them safe, or they hadn't even tried. North wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter, as the RUC were mainly Protestant, whereas these civil rights activists were mostly Catholics, and unionists at that. Northern Ireland hadn't picked a side, and he knew he wouldn't pick one. Whether they were Protestant, Catholic, loyalist or unionist, they were all his people.

And seeing them hurt by their ethnic brothers and sisters like this, their fellow Northern Irish, their kin, hurt him twice as much. He wanted what was best for his people, and this wasn't it. And for a moment there, the world was silent to North apart from the people's footsteps drumming on the ground, the sound of his brother's voice beside him, though he could not make out the words. Only when Sealand, who was being held by England and had been half asleep against his father's shoulder, let out a soft cry at the sight of some injured people, did North tear his gaze from the march. At the same moment, England gently pulled on North's arm to get his attention. "Let's just go, Coineach," he said, his expression unreadible as he looked at the activists. "They're safe here now, and besides, there isn't anything we can do for them." North opened his mouth, wanting to protest, wanting to say they needed to at least help some of the injured, but England was right: he spotted no gravely injured people, they were safe now that their march had ended, and the young nation just couldn't think of any way to help them without making it seem like he'd picked sides. _And if any_, he thought to himself. _I would pick the loyalists' side, anyway. I don't want to leave the United Kingdom._

The three nations sat down on a bench somewhere not too far away: England had to calm down Sealand before they would go back to their car and drive back to Belfast. The baby was clearly distressed by what he'd seen, though also visibly making an effort to not cry. But the occassional hiccup and soft sniffling betrayed how hard it was not to. Northern Ireland felt like crying now, too, as he once again realised what great responsibility he had as a nation. His tiny nephew, a micro-nation, would never know what it was like. Though he had the body of a nation, he had no true government, no real economy, no people that were his. And for a moment, North wished he was like that, too, with no people to protect and no hard decisions to make. But he just swallowed, pushing away his worries and fears, and stroked the little boy through his short, light blond hair for a moment. "It's okay, Peter," he whispered to him, forcing a smile. "No one died, no one is injured too bad... all the people you saw are alright. And so am I, okay? Nothing to be sad about." England then put his arm around the young Irish nation, and spoke one simple sentence. "You don't have to pretend, Coineach." And with that one simple sentence, he caused much less simple emotions to suddenly overflow.

"I-I just wish it w-was all ove-er!" North choked out, sobbing as he pulled his knees up to his chest. England pulled him close, one arm still around him and wishing Sealand weren't here right now, so he could properly hug his little brother now that he so clearly needed it. But he could do no more than hold a single arm around his shoulders and mumble soft words of comfort, as Sealand, too, began to sniffle and sob softly. His heart sank as he realised he had to deal with two upset chilren here, one of which wasn't even able to say what bothered him, even though it was clear right now. He wasn't as good at this as Scotland or Ireland were. In fact, he might have raised plenty of nations, he wasn't particularly good at being fatherly or caring for others or even simply comforting others. _I should've kept my mouth shut,_ he muttered to himself internally, shaking his head quickly afterwards. No, North really _mustn't_ pretend everything was alright when it wasn't, and he had to be told that. But then Sealand squirmed in his arms, eyes fixed on North and stretching out his short arms to the older boy. It took England a few seconds to realise what the baby wanted, but then he leaned in closer to Northern Ireland and whispered: "Coineach... look who wants to comfort you..." North looked up, his face wet with tears, but when he saw Sealand trying to reach him, a small smile still made its way onto his lips. He took the tiny micro-nation from his older brother's arms, and smiled again as his nephew held on to his shirt and pressed close to his chest, the closest thing he could do to a hug. And North felt reassured for a moment. Just a moment.

* * *

"Allistair, could you please come pick up Peter?" England asked over the phone that evening. "I take it you've heard what happened here today? Not-? Ah, we'll explain tomorrow. Long story short, Coineach needs the attention now more than that kid does, but that won't exactly work with a little supposed micro-nation demanding attention twenty-four hours a day." To his surprise, Scotland huffed, and he sneered, "Why? Can't ye keep th'wee prick silent for five minutes? How 'bout ye try a different approach?"  
Shocked, England stammered, "A-Al, you know what Peter is like! I've tried _every _approach! And what are you talking about? You love taking care of the youngsters in this family, even in _other_ families -Germany, remember?" He was thoroughly confused, and because of that, was quite blunt -again. He always managed to say the wrong words, it seemed.

"Yeah, I did," Scotland muttered in response, and England could imagine him glaring. "But at least Coineach was a decent lad. An' I hardly had to _raise_ Ludwig, I only made sure he would be okay after he an' Gil got seperated! Now that lil' spawn o'yers is simply the devil." He paused for a moment, then softly added something England could just barely hear -and which he probably wasn't supposed to hear. "Takes after his father, that lad."

"Allistair!" England exclaimed, stunned. What had he deserved this for? He had been blunt, yes, but not bad enough for his brother to say things like this. "What's the matter with you? You've never said things like this before!" Scotland just huffed and muttered something in response, and England just growled and interrupted him, "You know what? Suit yourself. But if Coineach decides he wants to call you, you'd better act normal again." Without waiting for a reply, he smashed the phone down, turning around to find Northern Ireland, who was lying on his bed with the curtains drawn, his room almost completely dark. It was no wonder he prefered darkness now, England decided, as he must have a massive headache despite not having complained about it yet. With a sigh, the Englishman sat down on the side of the bed, gently stroking his little brother through his dark ginger hair. "You know everything will be alright, right, lad?" he said softly, trying to be reassuring.

North didn't answer for a little while, then mumbled, "You were fighting with Allistair just now... why?" England blinked and averted his gaze, realising he must've spoken loud enough for the boy to hear him. He sighed again and let his shoulders hang for a moment. "I think Allistair is just tired, or busy... Something must be bothering him, but I won't ask him what: he'll tell us in his own time, okay? But he wasn't exactly kind and understanding just now." He smiled then, trying his hardest to not make it look forced. "But you don't need to worry. That too will be okay." North nodded slowly and said nothing after that for a while. But then he looked straight at England, and his pale emerald eyes shimmered in the darkness. "Can I go to Ireland?" he asked, surprising England. But then the older nation figured it was natural for North to want to go to him now, as it were the loyalists that were causing most problems at the moment. The ones that were against the Republic of Ireland. It did make sense for the boy to want to be with Ireland right now. And for once, England saw no harm in it, so he just nodded. "Of course. We'll go tomorrow. For now, if there's anything you need, just tell me. But try to get some rest, alright? I need to go check on little Peter now," he added with reluctance before leaving the room and going to said micro-nation.

* * *

Scotland was fuming after his phonecall with England. Didn't his little brother have _any_ consideration at all? None? Was he truly so oblivious that he didn't even realise how he was hurting Scotland everytime he asked his older brother to look after Sealand for a little while? And this hadn't been the first time, no, it had happened at least a dozen times in the past months. As if he couldn't look after Sealand himself! No, it was more like he didn't _want _to. And while Scotland's statement hadn't been far from the truth -the baby was a 'difficult' child, as far as stubborness and constant crying were concerned- but the Scot still really cared for him. He liked the kid, he really did, he just didn't like that he was his nephew.

The Scot was past the point where he'd lie to himself about this. It was simple, really: he just really wanted a kid, always had. He had enjoyed raising Wales back when they were kids, and had decided then, with his ten years of physical age, that he wanted to do that more often -raising other nations. Then when he and England joined together and created colonies all over the world, he though he'd finally have that chance again, but he didn't. All colonies turned to England as their adoptive parent, albeit not a very good one, and Scotland was just their beloved uncle with whom they could have fun. Now he enjoyed that, but he wished he could have been more than that. But if he had to be honest, he'd had this idea of really liking to have a family one day since medieval times. Not just a kid -a family. That's what he disliked about humans: for all they would never be able to do and experience that a nation could, they had the ability to do the one thing a nation never could, and that was to simply have a family. And Scotland envied them for that. Two-thousand years of life were lonely when you had no one to share it with but your brothers.

When Ireland -possibly- got Northern Ireland, he could accept that. Ireland was the oldest, he had mentioned once or twice over the centuries that he, too, would like a family other than his brothers. When he might or might not have gotten that, though it stung for a moment, Scotland was happy for him.  
But not with England. England clearly didn't try hard enough to take proper care of Sealand, and worse, _he clearly didn't want him._ And the Scot just couldn't understand that. How could anyone not care about their offspring, even if it was a born troublemaker like Sealand? He was difficult, the dislike had clearly been mutual since the first moment they saw each other, but still Scotland thought England could do a much better job with the kid.

How dare he try to dump him on his older brother. "Goddammit, Artie," he grumbled, glaring at the telephone as though his little brother could still hear him through it. "Yer livin' _my_ goddamn dream, laddie, and ye had damn well better learn to appreciate it, lil' prick."

* * *

Ireland always liked having Northern Ireland over, but sometimes he just wished the circumstances were different. The boy was tense all the time, worried sick about his people and now experiencing the same terrible headaches Ireland had for months years ago. He felt so bad for the kid. He wished he could just take away all his worries and all his pain, but knew he couldn't. "Ye have a lot of important decisions to make as a nation, Coineach," he told the young nation, knowing it weren't exactly words of comfort. But words of comfort, lies to make him feel better, weren't what North needed, anyway. He needed the truth, and the truth, hard as it was, wasn't always dark and painful. "And all those important decisions to be made can only lead to trouble. But know that, as a nation, there's no amount of trouble ye cannot overcome. Ye'll be fine." Northern Ireland nodded, taking a moment to let those words sink in. Then he slid sideways and laid down on Ireland's lap with his head, closing his eyes. "Thanks, Cearul," he mumbled.

Ireland was surprised for a moment, then stroked North through his hair. He smiled, a tiny, hardly visible smile. North's hair was still wavier than that of any of the others, and a bit darker and a little longer than Ireland's. The little freckles he had, had indeed grown lighter over the years, as they had all expected, but were still more visible than anyone had thought they'd be at this age. "Yer name suits ye well," he said softly after watching North for a moment, and the boy looked up at him sideways. "'Handsome'," Ireland added, smiling wider now. "It suits ye well. Have ye any idea how beautiful ye are?" North narrowed his eyes for a moment, then also smiled. "You always make weird little comments like that," he said, speaking softly. "But I don't mind... Thank you, Cearul." Ireland just blinked warmly, answering, "Ye don't need to thank me for sayin' the truth. Just as ye don't have to thank me when I say ye'll be fine despite everythin' goin' on. Yer strong, Coineach, ye can take this." North smiled for a moment longer, then closed his eyes, completely relaxed again.

After watching him for a moment longer, Ireland looked up again, completely at ease now as well. Until he met England's eyes, a hard emerald stare. But England just sighed and got up. "I suppose I have to go give Peter his lunch," he mumbled, and looked as if he would walk away with just that. But then he looked at Ireland again and, narrowing his eyes just the slightest, leaned in close to him. "I don't approve of that obvious fatherly pride," he whispered in his ear, soft enough for North to not hear. "But good job on getting him to calm down and relax. He needed that." Then he smirked, his eyes twinkling again, and Ireland could breathe easily once more. "Also, calling him handsome is almost _vain_, with how much he looks like you, brother," England finished, a little louder and with hints of laughter in his voice before he walked off to feed Sealand, who at that moment let out an impatient cry from the other side of the room. North huffed a laugh as England left the room with Sealand, and he opened one eye to stare up at Ireland. "Vain chap," he joked, sticking out his tongue at him. But then he got a little more serious. "We do look alike, don't we? Do we look like mom?"

Ireland smirked, raising one eyebrow. "Do we look like Artie?" North wondered for a moment, then nodded, answering that there was no doubt they were related when you put them together. Ireland gave a short nod. "Then we look like mom, except for the slightly different face and ginger hair. She had wavy hair like ye, though. And the same eyecolour, just a bit darker -like Artie's." This made North's eyes shine with joy, and Ireland forced the same joy to appear on his face, though this stung. Even if he told North the truth at this point, would the boy ever speak of his grandmother and his uncles, instead of his mother and brothers? Would he ever acknowledge Ireland as his father? There was only one way to find out -but he wouldn't. He just enjoyed moments like this, when North sat up and put his arms around him, twice as much, treasuring every second. _I love you, my dear son,_ he told him in silence as he held him, silently wishing North could hear. _You're still the most important thing in my life, and will always be._

* * *

But near the end of the year, things went wrong. At fourty-seven, though hardly thirteen physically, Nothern Ireland wanted to try out living in his house in Belfast on his own for a little while. Ireland was with him here now, staying at a little bed and breakfast in the city. If there was any problem, North could go to him and Ireland would stay with him for the rest of the time. So far things had gone well, though he had to get used to taking care of himself and being on his own. But he could cook, he could keep his house clean, he knew how to do his paperwork. The real problems came when he finished work and went out for a bit. He was just taking a stroll in the park when he was hauled up by his shirt from the back. "HEY!" he shrieked, squirming wild. "Let me go!" He gave a strong kick backwards, hitting soft skin that gave way easily -stomach. He was dropped at this, a sharp intake of air behind him and a yell. "_You!_" North turned around on he ground, looking up and scrambling to his feet. It was a young man standing in front of him, a boy perhaps -maybe nineteen years old. "You're Northern Ireland, aren't you?" the human demanded, towering over the young teen. Barely even a 'young teen', if he had to be honest about himself. Still, North nodded slowly, hiding any hint of fear he might be feeling, glaring up at the human boy. This human clenched his jaws angrily at this, folding his hands into fists. "I knew it," he muttered. "I met your brother once, Ireland, and you're a carbon copy of the man. Only much less honorable." He got even more tense as he continued, "These loyalists are getting out of control," he explained. "A group of them attacked my mother and little sister just last week, kicked 'em both right into hospital. They'll be fine, luckily, but what are you going to do about that, _great nation?_ Just gonna stand idly by while the loyalists attack innocent people?"

"I'm sorry," North answered, trying to remain calm. "If I could, I would've put a stop to it. I would've prevented it from happening altogether. But thing is, I can't." He saw disbelief flash in the young man's eyes, soon to be replaced by raw anger. Still, Northern Ireland continued. "Loyalists attacking innocent people is wrong, I agree with that. But what about the other way around? I'm sorry about what happened to your family, but I can't help it. As you can see," he added, gesturing to himself -barely reaching the human's shoulders- before continuing, "I'm not exactly strong enough to fight adults, am I?"

Completely unforeseen to him, the human gave him a strong sidewards kick at this, sending the boy flying and skidding to a halt on the grass. He scrambled up again, gasping for breath after being hit in the chest like that. The human was towering over him again, and this time, North took a step back, if only to show he didn't want to fight. The human didn't either, he saw, though he still had his hands clenched into fists: in his eyes lay nothing but rage, fear, pain and hatred. "The other way around," he hissed from inbetween clenched jaws, "is the _honorable way_. We need people to stand up for _us_, not you fuckin' loyalists! People like that brother of yours," he added, narrowing his eyes, while North's only widened. Was he talking about-? "Ireland," the human explained. "He was the one to kick my mother's attacker into hospital earlier this week. Almost kicked my sister's attacker into an early grave! I managed to fight off a third myself, but your brother was the real hero! You say you haven't picked sides, Northern Ireland, but you _have_. And you've picked the wrong one. At least _the Republic of Ireland_ is still on _our_ side." He then stalked off, leaving North to stare after him, rage bubbling up in him. _Ireland did __**what?!**_

* * *

That afternoon, he went to the bed and breakfast where his brother was staying, lucky enough to find him there. He immediately took his brother up to his rented room, grim-faced, and confronted him about what the human had told him. Ireland just narrowed his eyes slightly, confusement in his blue eyes. "I went a bit too rough on them," he admitted, not falling silent even when North exclaimed something in rage now that he knew the story was true. "But they would've killed those two if I'd let them, and they might've killed the boy, too. There were other bystanders, but they were loyalists -_and they litterally stood by_ _and watched._ What else should I've done, Coineach? Someone had to help them. And who better than someone who practically cannot be beaten by humans, anyway?"

"You could've _just_ chased them away, instead of injuring them so badly!" North yelled back at him, eyebrows close together in a frown. "I thought you were the peaceful one of the family, Cearul! Our very own _monk_, almost, preaching peace and kindness to all of us! If you cannot even follow your own rules, why do you keep telling _us _what to do? _Me?_" But then he realised something, wondered how he could've forgotten about that, and the rage only built. "How could I have been so _stupid!_" he scolded himself before turning back to Ireland, glaring at the man. "Of _course_ you don't care whether you hurt others or not -_you hurt your brothers in the past!_ You fought Arthur, you fought Allistair, you _crippled_ Dylan! And now it's _my_ turn, isn't it?! You're on the unionist side!" Ireland flinched, not having seen this coming, but he decided not to lie now, so he nodded slowly. "Of course I'm on the unionists' side, Coineach," he explained calmly. "I've told you before, haven't I? I would love to unite all of Ireland again. But I know better than to do so. I will not fight you, Coineach, I will not deliberately hurt your people -not unless they deserve it like these two men did." He stared Northern Ireland deep in the eyes, not a spark of the warmth they usually held in them, only seriousness as he added, "And I will not hurt _you_, Coineach."

"But it's practically war between us, isn't it?" North demanded, the anger subsiding but still present. "Your IRA and the unionists against my loyalists. You said only trouble could come from my decision, whatever my choice would be. I know I have to pick a side soon, Cearul, and I will pick the loyalists' side. And I just _know_ the IRA are waiting in the shadows like wild cats, ready to pounce on their prey the very moment I will make that choice. And I know, Cearul, that it _will_ come to us facing each other, too. And though you now say you won't, I'm pretty sure you'll end up hurting me like you did our brothers so long ago." Ireland listened in silence, stunned by how wise the boy had become, scared by the conviction with which he spoke. He was certain Ireland would attack him, apparently, and Ireland had to get that idea out of his mind _right _now. "Coineach, I _swear_, I won't attack you! I would never-"

"History proves you wrong, Cearul!" North interrupted him, still angry. "You've done it before and you will do it again! Whatever you say, history proves that you have no problem attacking your little brothers, so don't you _dare _say you would never do so! You _have _hurt your brothers before, Cearul, all of them! All of them except me -_yet._"

"But you're my _son,_ Coineach!" Ireland said quickly, trying desperately to convince Northern Ireland that he would never be so stupid as to attack him. "You're right about me hurting my brothers, but I could _never_ hurt my own child, Coineach. I could never hurt _you._" Only when he fell silent and saw the look in North's eyes, a look of confusement and horror, did he realise what he'd just said, and his heart seemed to stop. What a fool he was! What a stupid, brainless _fool!_ Fourty-seven years of secrecy, and he'd wasted all his efforts in a heartbeat now. And now, Northern Ireland had been right. Seeing the boy's eyes now, he knew that, while he'd been talking about how he would never hurt him, he already had. A heavy silence passed between the two as they stared at each other, two sets of pale-coloured eyes, both filled with raw emotion and so much pain. Ireland felt as if his lungs were filled with concrete, weighing down his chest and unabling him of breathing, making every heartbeat painful. He then drew in one shallow, shaky breath, slowly reaching for Northern Ireland now, wanting to comfort him. "Coineach-"

Hearing his name seemed to pull the boy from his apparent trance, and he hit Ireland's hand away forcefully. "Don't touch me!" he shrieked, confusement and hatred mingling in his voice as he got tense all over. "You're mad! You're absolutely _mad!_ You're my _father?_ That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard! If you're my father, why have you never told me anything about it? Why keep it a secret?"

The child's anger, though justified, came like a stab in the heart to Ireland and, inwardly cursing himself, he answered hoarsely, "You wouldn't have understood why it were your uncles raising you most of the time instead of me." His throat felt tight, and as he struggled to get the words over his lips, his heart was repeatedly being stabbed with that awful, terrible pain. "I did it for _you_, Coineach. I-I thought you wouldn't understand... that you would think you had a father that didn't care enough about you to raise you himself."

"Well, you thought wrong!" North snapped, glaring at him with eyes full of hatred, but also sadness, so much sadness. "I would've _loved _to have you as my father! _If_ that were the lie you'd have told me from the start, that is. Now you're not, and you'll never be." Warmth and love flashed in his eyes for a moment, just a heartbeat, but then it was gone, replaced by an icy hatred. "You're mad, Cearul. Completely out of your goddamn mind. I'm not your son, never have been, never will be! You're insane, and I -I hate you! You're not my father, Cearul! And you're not my brother, either! You're simply insane. Don't you dare follow me as I go, I... I never want to see your goddamn face again, you hear me!? _I hate you!_" North then ran off, hearing Ireland call after him. As he came downstairs in the bed and breakfast, a woman, the owner of this place, asked him if anything was the matter -but he just ran out of the building and slammed the door closed behind him.  
He headed straight for home, nearly kicking the door in in sheer rage and pain, then ran to the telephone and dialed England's number. He clenched his jaws tightly as he waited for his older brother -_not his uncle_\- to pick up the phone, and his throat began to burn with held-back tears. Then England picked up, _finally,_ and North immediately blurted out, "Please, Arthur, come pick me up as soon as you can!" A sob escaped his lips, but he bit it back, causing his throat to hurt even more. "I don't want to be here anymore!" he choked out, tears trailing down his cheeks. England, shocked, asked him what was wrong, and why Ireland wasn't there with him, but North only screamed, "I DON'T_ WANT _HIM TO BE HERE, THAT'S WHY! I hate him, I hate him _so much!_ Arthur, please-!" He then couldn't hold it back anymore, and let out a heart-wrenching cry. He heard England talk to him, asking what was going on and trying to soothe him, but he just smashed the phone down. He'd passed on his message, and now he was done talking. His legs shaky and weak, he slid down against the wall and curled up, hugging his knees and crying harder than he'd ever done, feeling like a little kid. And the ironic thing was, that he felt like a little kid in _dire_ need of comfort from his father. But if he'd ever had one, he didn't anymore now.

Ireland wasn't much better off. He just had to run his mouth again, and now he'd not only lost his son, but also his little brother. He felt terrible, terrible for hurting North, for lying to him for so long. And now the boy hated him, as he should. Ireland didn't deserve to be loved, by anyone, and especially not by Northern Ireland. Not anymore now. He just about managed to lock the door to his rented room with trembling fingers, operating on auto-pilot now, so that, if anyone heard him now, they at least wouldn't be able to get in. And then he allowed himself to cry, break down, fall apart. He crumbled, easier and faster now than he ever thought he would, and he felt like an empty shell of misery. His own cursed tongue had cut into his heart, and North had ripped it out of his chest just now. But as much as the child had hurt him with his words, he could only think of how right he was to do so. He had all the right to break Ireland's heart like Ireland had broken his. And now it was over.  
With one simple sentence, Ireland had managed to destroy everything. He had lost his son, he had lost his little brother. He had ruined it all, and he knew with all his heart...

He'd ruined it for good this time.

* * *

**...**

**It had to happen one day. This was practically the first scene I wrote for this story, though it changed a lot since the first draft, as it marks the beginning of what the story is all about: the Troubles.**

**Words are easily said, and the wrong ones only easier. But they are, no matter what, impossible to take back. And everyone will one day learn that the hard way. It's the only way to learn it. But it always hurts when you do.**

**Thank you for reading, and I hope the next chapter won't take too long. Not after an ending like this. And please leave a review on your way out!**


	19. Chapter 19

**This chapter was done quickly, wasn't it? Things happen when I want to know what happens next as much as my readers do, I suppose!**

**Crossfire, I'm sorry for the tissues being used! But thank you for that review, as always!**

**Now without further ado...**

* * *

"Hey, Allistair," Ireland greeted his younger brother on the phone one day. "I heard what happened. Is -is Coineach alright?" It was 13 August 1969, and ever since he accidentally told North the family's greatest secret, he hadn't seen the boy or spoken to him. Now a battle between loyalists and the RUC against the nationalists or 'unionists' had been fought over the past two days, and several weapons had been used, one of which CS gas. He was worried, but North probably still wouldn't talk to him. Scotland, thank goodness, was a bit more understanding of how both Ireland and North felt than England was, who was only angry that Ireland had run his mouth like that. "He's okay, Old Man," he reassured his older brother. "A few bruises and a little difficulty breathing, but he's okay. But..." he added a bit softer, careful about how he would say the next part. "He's still angry with ye, Cearul. He won't talk to ye yet... give the lad some time, I'm sure he'll be okay." Ireland just nodded silently, that same old sadness burning in the hole his heart left. Eventually Scotland asked, "Old Man... are _ye _alright?"

"No," Ireland answered honestly, sighing. "No, not really. But how about ye, lil' brother? How are ye doin'?" There was a short moment of silence on the other end of the line, until Scotland let out a sigh. "I can't keep anything secret from ye, can I? I'm... as good as it gets, I suppose."  
"Which is?"  
"Not too great," Scotland sighed, and Ireland could almost see him shrug. "But what can I do 'bout it? I'll just have to accept things as they are, an' then... I dunno... Cearul, it's just so _unfair_," he added, for the first time ever telling anyone what had been bothering him for almost two years now. "What was fate thinkin', dumping a kid on a _very_ unwilling Artie instead of _me_? But once again, what can I do 'bout it? It is as it is. I'll just need to learn to live with it, I guess. But, brother, I have to go now. Coineach just called me, an'... I'd rather not let the lad alone for too long now."

Ireland nodded, "Right. Thanks for taking care of him, Al." Then he put the phone back down and sighed. He'd really screwed up. Ever since that mistake, he'd spoken to all his brothers, but not Northern Ireland. The boy avoided him as though his life depended on it, and it felt horrible. He didn't even particularly want North to come and talk to him, he just wanted to make sure the kid was alright. And he knew he wouldn't be alright as long as he was still too angry to face Ireland, for that meant he was still hurting as much as the older nation was. He just wished North would be alright, even if they would never speak to each other again.

Northern Ireland watched Scotland in silence as the older nation came his way, sitting down beside him. It took him a moment before he could bring himself to ask the question that was burning in his mind, but he felt relieved he did once he voiced it. "That was Cearul, wasn't it?" Much to his silent relief, Scotland nodded. "He wanted to check up on ye," the older nation explained. "With what happened the last few days, he was worried about ye." Northern Ireland nodded slowly, happy that Ireland still cared about him at least. He was still angry with him, still didn't want to see him or speak to him, and he wondered if he ever would again. But to know that Ireland still cared about him felt surprisingly good. "So how was he?" North asked his older brother, not looking up. "How is he doing?"

"Not too good," Scotland answered in honesty. "But well enough, considering how he must be feeling... He's as okay as ye are, lil' lad." Northern Ireland nodded, a tiny smile playing at his lips. He was happy to know Ireland was doing relatively alright. "But ye still don't want t'see him?" Scotland asked, and North shook his head without hesitation. The Scot then pulled the younger nation close, holding one arm around his still-thin shoulders. They sat like that in silence for a moment, until Scotland looked down at North, his expression warm but otherwise unreadable. "Coineach," he began, voice soft but serious. "Do ye think of Cearul as yer brother or yer father now?"

"Neither," North answered flatly, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not sure what to think. I suppose he's more or less been acting like my dad all my life already, but I always thought of him as my brother. Right now he's neither to me, until I have decided which he is."

Scotland nodded, taking in the answer slowly before asking, "And if ye could one day find out... Find proof that he's either one of the two... Would ye want to know?" North nodded. There was not a doubt in his mind that he wanted to find out the truth now, ever since he heard there was another possibility than being the youngest of five brothers. "And ye'd be okay with it, whatever the outcome would be?" Scotland continued, and then North fell silent, his mind blank. Would he? He wanted the world to remain as he'd known it for fourty-seven years, but he hadn't been lying when he'd said he would've liked Ireland to be his father. That would have been great, if only it had been like that from day one. Their lives as they were now were beyond having the ability to change. They were brothers, and they would always be. Wouldn't they? North couldn't imagine thinking of Ireland as his father now, after nearly half a century of being brothers. He was glad when Scotland didn't push for an answer, and instead just put his other arm around the boy and hugged him. Content, North answered the embrace, his head against the Scot's shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his big brother. He knew one thing for sure: whatever Ireland would be, his brothers would remain his brothers forever. "You know what, Allistair?" he said softly, closing his eyes and smiling, still leaning happily against his big brother. "I'm not sure about Cearul, but _you _would make a great father, I think. You've taken care of me for a long time when I was little, you're looking after Peter a lot... you even raised Dylan, right? You've even been looking after West Germany for nearly a decade, checking on him every few weeks! If _you_ were my father, and not Cearul, that would be great. I'd be lucky."

As he was speaking, North noticed Scotland's grip on him growing slightly tighter at first, then weaker, getting shaky. His ear practically against the Scot's chest, he could hear his heartbeat pick up, and he wondered what was going on exactly. But then a single drop of warm liquid fell on his cheek, and he sat stunned for a moment as realisation slowly seeped in. He tilted his head up, so that he could see Scotland's face, and was somehow surprised and not surprised at all at the same time as he saw the one thing he'd never seen before. He gently wiped away one tear from his brother's face, but a new one was already welling up in the corners of his closed eyes. He was visibly clenching his jaws, trying not to make a sound, but it was clearly getting hard. North wondered for a moment what he'd said that could trigger this reaction from his brother, as these clearly weren't tears of joy over hearing his little brother's words. They were of silent suffering, pain that had been bottled up for way too long, and though he didn't quite understand, Northern Ireland hugged his brother again, sitting up on his knees so their faces were on the same level. And then he just said the one sentence he clearly remembered England once saying to him. "You don't have to pretend, Allistair." Scotland swung his arms around his little brother then, face against his shoulder, trembling as tears trailed down his face and soaked North's shoulder, sobs, though stifled and soft, escaping his lips. North just held him, wondering again what he'd said that could cause him to see his brother cry for the first time in his fourty-eight years of life.

* * *

At the same time, Wales and England were on the mainland, exiting the conference room where there'd just been a meeting. Things weren't too great, but looking up at least. They were just talking about the troubles going on in Northern Ireland, when a voice called behind them, in an achingly familiar language that made Wales' skin crawl. "_Pays des Galles!_" came the voice of France, and the two brothers turned around to see the European nation running their way, his eyes fixed completely on Wales, more or less ignoring his younger half-brother. He came to a halt in front of them, and Wales inspected him with a cold gaze. "What is it, France?" he asked flatly, and France almost cringed at his tone. The Frenchman looked briefly at England, then mumbled, "It's... private." England met his gaze emotionlessly, glanced at Wales and shrugged. "Fine. But Dylan, please don't be long." He then turned around and walked away, and France waited until England was out of sight and there was no other nation to be seen. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan interrupted him before he could utter a word. "Honestly, Francis, do you keep stalking all your exes? You must lead a busy life, then."

France shook his head, looking the younger nation deep in the eyes as he answered, "Zhat's what zhis is about. You're zhe first in over two centuries zhat I'm trying to get back to." Wales' eyes widened a little, and he stared at France in silence. He didn't really hear it as France continued, "I know we've stopped zhis zhirteen years ago, but I just 'ad to tell you zhat I was, and still am, very... fond of you. _Ce n'est pas amour, mais..._ fondness." He was trying to say more, but was cut off as Wales' lips locked with his. The kiss lasted a few seconds, and Wales was the first to pull away again as well. "I'm 'fond' of you, too," he said, a tiny smile on his lips. "No, you're right: there's not a trace of love involved and there never was. But whatever it was, then... it's still there, isn't it?" France smiled now, too, and nodded. "Never left, did it?" Wales didn't answer with words: he just kissed him again, enjoying it as much as he did thirteen years ago. He'd known the moment he did it, that he'd ended their relationship a little prematurely. If it could just last a little longer... then they'd be done.

England smirked as Wales appeared round the corner where he was waiting for his brother, and they walked down the last part of the corridor together. When they were nearly at the staircase, he asked casually, "So, I take it the two of you are giving it another go?"  
"Have you been eavesdropping on us?" Wales demanded, startled and a little angry. England just snickered, smirking at him. "No," he answered truthfully. "But I've known you long enough to be able to tell when my brother's been making out with someone." He shrugged, then gestured to his brother's face. "It's visible on your lips: they're glistening a little." Immediately, Wales drew the back of his hand over his still-damp lips, drying them off quickly, his cheeks tinting pink with embarassment. England smirked again, then sighed. "Well, so long as you can stay apart when I'm near... I wouldn't like to see my brothers making out, thank you." Wales laughed softly, his heart pounding against his ribs, and he wondered how long 'short and temporary' would be _this_ time. But surely not another two years...?

* * *

Two days later, Northern Ireland had begun asking Scotland about why Ireland would even think he was North's father, as he didn't quite get that yet, and why he would keep it a secret from everyone -North figured Scotland would know most about it, being very close to his older brother. "He didn't keep it a secret from _everyone_," Scotland explained, however, frowning a bit and discomfort audible in his voice. "Just... just ye, laddie. An' how he got the idea in the first place... Dylan's to blame for that. Th'lad had some very good reasoning there, though, an' it did make sense. One thing is for certain, an' that's that yer not Britannia's son like the rest of us are. But that doesn't immediately make ye Cearul's instead." He sighed then, ruffling the kid's hair. "It's complicated, Coineach. It's complicated an' I don't know half of it." But suddenly, North swatted his hand away, glaring at the older nation.

"So _you_ knew as well, and you never told me about it?" he demanded angrily. "You never cared to tell me that Ireland is insane? What the hell, Allistair?!"

Scotland sighed again, cringing a bit as North raised his voice. "Laddie, we did it for yer own good. An' please don't make a big deal out of it... I'm really not in the mood for fightin' with ye."  
"But you don't actually believe him, do you?" North demanded, paying no attention to Scotland's plea. He just huffed, narrowing his eyes. "Oh, of course you do. Why else would you've kept it a secret from me? 'Hey, let's pretend we're this kid's brothers when we're actually his uncles and father!' Oh, yeah, _really funny_, Allistair." He then got up, walking towards the door, and Scotland sighed again. "Laddie, where are ye goin'?"

"Does it matter?" he snapped, walking out the room and slamming the door behind him. Scotland stared at the closed door for a moment, silent, then turned away from it, looking over his shoulder at the window. It was dark outside, not because it was nearly evening -it was late afternoon- but because stormclouds were brewing in the sky. And just now, he heard the frontdoor open and slam closed again. "It does matter," he mumbled. "When a storm like that's coming, idiot." He wondered for a moment whether he should follow the boy, but decided against it. _Let him fume_, he said to himself, closing his eyes. _He's a young teen: they get like that._ It wasn't long after that, that he drifted into sleep. He'd been tired from the moment he'd woken up, and he hoped that after a quick nap, at least the headache would be gone again.

When he woke again, it was dark outside, rain pouring out of the sky and clattering against the window loudly. It was a lot colder than it had been that afternoon -a fairly normal summer day- as well. The Scot forced himself to his feet. That nap hadn't done him any good, it seemed, as he was still tired and the headache had only grown worse. "Blasted thunder," he muttered to himself, one hand to his throbbing forehead and his eyes closed again. But then he realised it must be at least four hours after Northern Ireland had run off, and he'd better check if he were back again. Surely he wasn't still out in this storm? But after a quick scan of the house, he concluded that he _was_. Scotland sighed, grabbed his coat and shot one last glance out the window, water streaming down on it. "Don't make me come after ye now, laddie," he mumbled, already knowing he had no choice. Ireland would kill him if he let something happen to the boy. If he didn't kill himself first, that is, as he wouldn't forgive himself, either. He might not be feeling up to it, with the fatigue and his legs feeling like he'd already run a mile, but North was his little brother. He had priority, no matter what.

* * *

Northern Ireland had found a place to shelter from the rain for a bit, only the rain lasted longer than he'd expected, and he was stuck there now. He hadn't taken a coat with him, as it had been warm when he left, but he hadn't paid any attention to the clouds. And now he wished he had. He wanted the storm to be over as quickly as possible, so he could be on his way again. He hadn't gotten far before the storm broke, and he was sick of sitting there, waiting. But he didn't want to go home. No, definitely not. He just needed to get away from the lies and, more importantly, the liars. But he seemed to have no luck, as he suddenly heard a voice call out of the thundering rain. "Coineach! Coineach, laddie, please just... just answer me, will ye?" Scotland sounded even more tired than he had that afternoon, and guiltily, North wondered how long he'd been out, searching. And when the older nation came within sight, guilt stabbed him even stronger. His older brother was drenched, and he was searching frantically, obviously getting a bit panicked now that he couldn't find his brother. North was just about to call out to him when the Scot spotted him, and the older nation ran toward him, clearly relieved. "Coineach, thank goodness-!" he gasped, taking a moment to catch his breath after that, which North found strange: he'd only run across the street and a bit further -not far, at least. "Ye should've just come back when the rain started!" Scotland scolded him, trying to look angry, but worry won in the end. "Now let's just-" He broke off suddenly in a harsh coughing fit, and North's eyes widened a bit, though he remained silent. "Let's just go home now, laddie," Scotland finished, voice raspy after his coughing. North narrowed his eyes a bit now, silent for a moment, wondering what to do. Scotland wouldn't let him leave anymore now, and besides, he figured as he watched the trembling hand the Scot had reached out to him, he was needed now. "Fine," he snapped, then forcing his voice to be softer and calmer. This was not the time to be angry. "But only because you need me right now."

The older nation seemed surprised at this, but was relieved when North grabbed his hand, got to his feet and got closer to him. He immediately opened his coat and swung one side of it around the boy's shoulders in an effort to keep him warm and dry. He especially succeeded in the 'warm' part, North thought, as his brother's body seemed to be radiating heat, only confirming the boy's suspicions. The idiot had actually gone out into the pouring rain when he was already sick. He coughed occasionally, and he seemed out of breath the entire time, even though they were just walking, which got Northern Ireland worried. He'd seen his brother's sick before, but that was because of political or economical issues, or the war, or things like that. This didn't seem to have an explanation like that, as they economy was doing quite fine and only North's political world was really in an uproar. He'd had headaches himself for days already. _At least now that I'm going to take care of Al,_ he thought with an internal smirk, _I can show him and the others that I'm not some little kid they can feed lies for 'my own sake' anymore!_

His determination to do this had faded by the time they got home, however, and was replaced by genuine worry and fear. Scotland's condition had only been declining on the way back home, coughing fits coming more frequently with the minute, his whole body trembling as though tiny tremors were shaking him to the core. The heat North felt as he was pressed close to him only increased as well, and he knew he _had _to look after his big brother now, not just to show him he was capable of looking after himself and others, but because the Scot really needed it at this point. At the door, he took the key to the house from his brother's trembling fingers and opened the door for him, then pulling him inside quickly, closing the door again. He then turned around and was about to help his brother take off his coat, when Scotland took a step back and shook his head. "I know I'm not a hundred percent right now, laddie," he said. "But ye dun'have to take care o'me like that, I-" He broke off coughing again, then finished a little less convinced, "I can do that myself just fine. Really, ye dun'have to look after me." He pressed his lips together as he hung up his coat, his shoulders trembling even worse than before, and it was obvious he was holding back another coughing fit. "I do," North muttered, crossing his arms. "You're not sick, Allistair, you're _really _sick. Now let's just get you upstairs... have you eaten yet?"

"No," Scotland answered reluctantly, still not willing to let his little brother be the one looking after him instead of the other way around. "An' to be honest, I'm not hungry, either. So don't bother cooking -unless it's for yourself." North nodded and mumbled that he wouldn't, and would first get his brother upstairs instead, though having no appetite was a bad sign. Scotland just rolled his eyes, though he had to admit the child was right: he'd only had breakfast and lunch today to set a good example, really, and the fact that he still wasn't even a little hungry wasn't too healthy. North just pulled him upstairs, wanting to get his brother to rest as quickly as possible. But he wondered if letting him collapse on the couch would have been a better idea, for by the time they reached the top of the stairs, Scotland was wheezing, gasping for breath, his chest heaving with the effort to get enough oxygen. _Whatever it is, _North thought worriedly as he pulled his brother along into his bedroom now. _It's definitely something with his lungs. Oh, dammit..._ This was far more serious than that cold he'd helped England with sometime after the war, far more complicated than Ireland's political problems years ago. He didn't even know what was going on, for Heaven's sake! How was he supposed to help? Even when seated, Scotland's breathing didn't seem to get any better, and suddenly North got an idea. He'd heard about this in school well over a decade ago, and he personally thought it was ridiculous, but it might work. He pulled Scotland to his feet again, who let himself be pulled along mainly because he was in no condition to argue, and brought him to the bathroom. There, he turned on the shower, making the water as warm as he could without the risk of burning himself or his brother. Then he pushed Scotland, still fully dressed, under the stream of hot water, then quickly closing the door and checking the small bathroom window was closed as well, letting the room fill with steam.

Soon enough, Scotland's breathing became a little more normal again, and he inhaled deeply a few times, clearly enjoying the oxygen he'd lacked for a few minutes. He then looked at North, smiling a bit, though his eyes were glassy in a way that the young nation definitely didn't like. "That was a... a smart move, laddie," he choked out, still not breathing properly yet. "Thanks... I hadn't thought o'this one yet." He then turned off the shower, stumbling out from under it then grabbing a towel. But he didn't get far with that before he wuickly collapsed on his knees, leaning over the toilet and promptly throwing up. Northern Ireland took a step back, getting scared now, and when Scotland had a moment to catch his breath again, he glanced sidewards at the young nation and forced a smile. "It's just a virus, Coineach," he reassured him, though he didn't sound too confident himself. "It'll pass before ye know it." But when he vomitted again, his own remaining confidence seemed to get weaker as well. Just a virus, yes, but nations didn't often catch them quite like this.

About twenty minutes later, the Scot lay in bed, being forced there by his little brother even though he would've gone on his own, and North was just about to leave when the older nation said softly, "Well, I suppose ye were right, laddie." North turned around and looked at him questioningly. "That I need ye now, an' not the other way 'round. Yer right... an' thank ye. Ye... did a great job just now, 'specially with that steam trick. But, Coineach -an' don't kill me for this-... I think ye should call Cearul." Northern Ireland stiffened, though for his brother's sake, he didn't say a word. "I have a feelin' this won't pass in a day," Scotland explained further, stifling another bout of coughing before continuing. "And, honestly, I don't want to burden ye with this... _I'm_ the older brother, yer not supposed to be lookin' after me." North just stared at him for a moment, wondering how he could ask that of his little brother, and eventually, Scotland sighed. "Look, laddie, I know it's hard for ye, but-"

"I'll talk to him," North interrupted him then, shaking his head. "It's okay. I'll talk to him. You're right: I can keep this up for one evening, but I don't even know what wrong with you. How can I help if I don't even know that? Don't worry, Al, I'll call him right away. Maybe he'll be here by tomorrow. Now you just go to sleep, alright? Goodnight, Allistair." He then turned around and walked out of the room before the Scot could say anything else, and went downstairs again. He felt sick himself as he walked to the telephone, his fingers trembling as he slowly dialed Ireland's number. He held his breath as he waited for the older nation to pick up, and when he did, the Irishman immediately assumed it was Scotland calling him. "Allistair? You're calling late. Is anything the matter?" He sounded worried, North heard immediately. He probably thought something might've happened to North instead. "No, Cearul, it's me," the boy said quickly, dreading the surprise and joy he could practically _feel_ through the phone, impossible as that may be. "Don't flatter yourself, Cearul, I'm not calling just to talk to you," Northern Ireland added quickly, just to get any ideas out of the nation's head right away. "I'm calling because of Allistair."

"Al? What's wrong with the lad?" A whole different kind of worry now seeped through Ireland's voice, and much to North's relief, a deeper worry than when he'd thought something happened to North. Northern Ireland quickly explained that evening's events, and when he'd finished speaking, he waited impatiently for Ireland's answer. "That's... Coineach, lad, what exactly is wrong with him? You mentioned a fever and coughing..."  
"He can't breathe right," the young nation explained. "And he's out of breath way too quickly. He's been tired all day and he hasn't been eating well -hasn't even had dinner at all. And he vomitted earlier. And that's just about it, I guess..."

"Just about it," Ireland ehoed, scoffing. "Like that isn't enough yet! It sounds like pneumonia," he added quickly before North could react. "With us, it usually passes within a day. But his lungs aren't quite as strong as ours anymore, so... It can take a few days, though no more than four. If it lasts longer than that, we'll have to get him to a doctor."  
"We?" North asked, relieved. "You mean you'll come?"  
"Of course!" Ireland answered immediately. "Do you think I'd do nothing while my little brother has pneumonia? And a rather bad case at that, the sound of it. No, Coineach, I'll be there by noon tomorrow. Now I need you to do something for Al now, okay?" Northern Ireland nodded, mumbling a soft agreement, and Ireland explained, "You'd better wait until he's actually asleep, as I don't think he'll accept this, but... I think it's best if you check on him at least twice this night. If his fever gets too high, try to cool him down. And if his breathing gets too shallow, wake him up, try to get him to breathe normally again... that sort of thing. It's important that you keep an eye on him." North nodded, agreeing, then softly said goodbye to Ireland. "Yes... goodnight, Coineach. And thank you for calling me. I do always want to know if something's wrong with my little brothers. I promise I'll be there before noon tomorrow. Now take care of yourself too, okay?" Northern Ireland then went back upstairs and silently went into Scotland's room. The older nation was already asleep, so North went to get a chair from the Scot's office and placed it beside his bed. Checking on him once or twice wasn't enough, he decided. Even if just to reassure himself, Northern Ireland would be with him the entire night. The entire morning, too. He wouldn't leave his brother's side until noon the next day. Until Ireland would arrive...  
"I'm doing this for you, you know," North mumbled to his sleeping brother. "Just for you."  
But silently, he had to admit, he was glad he would see Ireland again after a year...

* * *

**For those that didn't like it, I'm sorry that FrancexWales is back for a spell. Just for a bit. They wouldn't leave my mind yet.**

**As for Scotland, I just needed a reason for North to accept Ireland's presence again. And I figured the only reason he'd let that happen, was if it were an important matter like his brother's health.**

**So that's it for now. And now I have some tests and presentations coming up, so the next might take a bit. Though I guess next weekend, like usual. Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it!**


	20. Chapter 20

**This chapter is a bit shorter than the last few have been, but I suppose that isn't a problem, is it?**

**I might post a new chapter soon, though I'm not sure. Next week I have quite some tests, my job as a tutor and an exhange with Germany. So I'll be busy! But I have a longer weekend after that (bless King's Day) so I will definitely post the next chapter then.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review!**

**I wasn't too sure what to do with the Scotland situation. Even before I posted the last chapter, I had a few ideas on what to do in this one. But I decided to go with my original idea, after all.**

**Oh, and of course this fic won't be too focused on France and Wales. It's _Trouble. _It's main focus is, and will remain, the Troubles, both internationally and within the family. So don't worry!**

**I hope you'll like this chapter!**

* * *

The doorbell rang. Exhausted as he was after staying up nearly all night, Northern Ireland's hart began to race and his muscles tensed. Ireland was here. After nearly a year, he would see his older brother again, or his father, or whatever he was. Would Ireland say anything to him? Or would he be focused more on Scotland, like he had been last night? North had not a clue, and he was terrified not knowing. Nervously, he made his way to the door, aware of Scotland saying something to him but not catching what he was saying. He slowly approached the door, or at least, it seemed slow. He was probably moving at a normal pace, but it felt like ages. His fingers trembled as he reached for the door, and he took a deep breath. Would Ireland be angry at him for running away like he had? Would he be sad, remembering how North had claimed to hate him and never wanting to see him again? No, he was here for Scotland. Surely that would be all he'd come for.  
He then exhaled, opening the door. The first thing that came to mind as he looked at Ireland was, strange enough, that the older nation seemed shorter somehow, although just a bit. North hadn't even noticed he'd grown a few centimeters again until he saw himself in comparison to Ireland like this. Why was that the first thing he thought about? Didn't he have better things to think?

"Hi, Coineach," Ireland said calmly, acting as though the past year had never happened, though something flashed in his eyes as he looked down at the boy, and his fingers twitched before he folded his hands into loose fists. "I hope everything's been okay last night? I mean, there weren't any problems after you called, I hope?"

North shook his head, relieved that Ireland was straight to the point and did not attempt to talk to him about... _it_ and _then._ "He breathed well once he slept," he explained. "And his fever's gone, so I suppose it will pass soon." Ireland narrowed his eyes at this, hummed something too soft for Northern Ireland to hear, then gave a short nod. "Alright. Well, I'll just see if there's anything I can do, then. But it sounds as if he'll be okay." North then stepped aside, allowing Ireland to come inside, and the boy closed the door behind them as the older nation already went into the livingroom, where Scotland was reading the newspaper. His breathing was still shallower than it should be, and the occassional cough showed he wasn't quite healed yet, but he was doing far better than the night before. Just as North walked in, Ireland and the Scot exhanged a brief greeting, and Ireland asked how he was doing, to which the younger nation just shrugged. Ireland then turned to North, and said softly, "Coineach, why don't you go upstairs, sleep for a bit? You look exhausted, lad." Northern Ireland nodded. He'd stayed awake most of the night, nodded off for about an hour then stayed awake again. First because he wanted to watch Scotland, then the second time because he couldn't sleep knowing Ireland would come. He was still very uncomfortable about the older nation being here, but he was so tired, he'd fall asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, most likely. Mumbling a soft goodbye to the two of them, he went upstairs, crashed down onto his bed fully dressed and fell asleep like that.

When Northern Ireland's footsteps faded up the stairs, Ireland turned to Scotland with a hard stare, narrowing his eyes. "What are you playing at, Allistair?" he demanded, his voice cold, and Scotland just returned the stare, remaining silent. "The last time you caught a human virus and it was _serious _was fourty years ago at least. Coineach wouldn't remember it, at least, it was _that _long ago. And besides, it could never be this bad! There's_ hardly _any damage left to your lungs, mild scarring at most. Even the worst case of pneumonia, if it was a human virus, could never be this bad. So I'll ask it again: what the fucking hell are you playing at?"

Scotland sighed and shrugged. He breathed normally again, and his voice was as strong as it had ever been when he spoke. "Getting ye and Coineach to talk again, obviously," he answered flatly. "Something had t'happen, Cearul, and I figured this was the easiest way to go 'bout it." He remained as relaxed as ever when Ireland clenched his jaws and fists in sheer anger, and added, "And for the record, I _did_ catch _something_, though I guess't was no worse than a cold. There's only so much one can fake, after all, though ye'd be surprised. The fever was real enough, and after that trip through yesterday's storm, it was high enough to... well, I _was_ pretty out of it, near the end of the evening. That wasn't my original plan. But it worked splendidly: Coineach was willing enough to talk to ye, wasn't he? And now yer here..." He gave a short nod, approving of his achievement. "I don't like lying, Cearul, but sometimes 'tis necessary. And when I woke up with a cold yesterday, I knew exactly what to do. And it worked."

"You manipulated Coineach's feelings to..." Ireland muttered, voice barely audible as he sent his younger brother death glares. "You _manipulated _him, Allistair, just so he would talk to me? You do know how horrible that is, right?" Scotland said nothing, though a flash in his eyes told Ireland that he knew exactly how horrible it was. But that hadn't stopped him from doing it. "If I hadn't been driving for hours just to get here, I would've left _right now_," Ireland grumbled, looking away, clearly enraged. "I'll have no part in this _bullshit._ The moment that lad wakes up, I -no, _you_\- will tell him _exactly_ what you did, understand?" Scotland nodded, though reluctantly. What he'd done was wrong, he knew that very well, but hopefully Ireland would see that the outcome had been positive once his anger cooled down a bit. After all, it was, wasn't it?

* * *

Wales stared at England wide-eyed, gaping a bit. England just stared at him, confused, and blinked a few times before sighing and asking, "Okay, Dylan, what is so fascinating about me that you just can't keep your eyes off me? This is getting creepy."  
"I-it's just... well, you see... I... _wow_," Wales stammered, and England was really getting freaked out by him now. "You just... I never thought I'd see you wearing a _T-shirt_ instead of normal shirts, you being... _you_."

"They're comfortable!" England protested immediately. "And what's wrong with that, anyway? It's just a piece of clothing." Wales nodded, still not used to seeing his little brother in something so... so _casual_. England had a habbit of dressing up like the gentleman he, well, _tried_ to be, at least. And to wear something as casual as this, especially today... "But we're heading to the airport in an hour," Wales argued, still not getting it. "We're going to see plenty of other nations there, for sure. And government officials. And you're okay with being seen like that?" England didn't answer, only rolled his eyes and continued packing his suitcase. They'd been here for just over a week, and he was glad to be going home again. And no, he didn't care one bit about being seen 'like this'. He didn't understand why Wales was making such a big deal about his little brother's clothing, when it was perfectly acceptable what he was wearing.

But at the same time, Wales just didn't understand his little brother anymore. England seemed to be getting more casual and easygoing with the month, not just in clothing, but his entire personality. Maybe he was just trying to be a bit more relaxed after the chaotic first half of this century, but Wales still found it strange. It wasn't like England at all. But he just shook his head and went to a different topic. "So, ehm... are you looking forward to seeing Peter again after so long?"

Wrong topic. "Well, you know..." England sighed, not looking up from what he was doing. "He still hates my guts, and that makes it a bit hard for me to like him. I try, and I have to admit that I do care about him, but..." He trailed off for a moment, turning to look at his older brother, guilt clearly visible in his eyes. "Is it wrong that I didn't miss him? At all?" Wales blinked, surprised, and couldn't help blurting out, "Wrong? Artie, 'wrong' doesn't even come close! He's your _kid_, for Heaven's sake!" England just blinked, sadness flashing in his eyes for a moment as he answered in a whisper, "I know." Then he closed his suitcase and turned to Wales. "You pack your stuff now, brother. We'll be leaving soon." But then a smile returned to his face, and he added, "Do you think everything went as alright at home as it did here? Knowing Allistair, Coineach must be cheered up by now, hm? I bet he took him hiking first chance he got." Wales then smiled again as well, nodding. Knowing Scotland, that was exactly what the two had been doing.

* * *

Northern Ireland was staring at Scotland, eyes narrowed in dibelief and rage. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Even you?" he asked, voice a whisper. Scotland just blinked, confused by those words, but said nothing. "Even you?" North repeated, subconsciously clenching his hands into fists. "Even you, Allistair, are lying to me now...?" But North remained strangely calm now, not a trace of fiery hatred he'd shown when Ireland told him _it_. But the anger was definitely there, and the fact he remained so calm through it was perhaps the scariest thing. But it wasn't. The scariest thing came a few seconds later, when the young nation suddenly burst out laughing. "But of course!" he choked out between the laughter. "Of course you do -everyone lies to me! My entire life is based on your lies, how could I expect anything else?!" He kept laughing for a moment longer, then silenced himself again, a tiny smile still on his lips as he looked at Scotland. "Get out of my house, asshole."

Scotland nodded and got up slowly, looking at the boy before he would leave. "For the record, laddie, I _am_ sorry," he said softly. "I really am. But something had to be done, an' ye were just so stubborn..."

"Get out."

"I will. Just let me say a proper apology first, lad. I didn't want to see this as lying to ye, an' that was my mistake -I wanted to believe I was helping ye with this. An' though the method was as wrong as it gets, I hope it wasn't for nothing, Coineach."

"GET OUT!"

Scotland blinked, startled by the boy's anger but hardly showing it, then nodding and turning around. "I hope ye'll talk to Cearul, Coineach," he said as he walked away. "An' I hope ye'll feel better after ye have." Then he left quickly, before North could yell at him again. Only when he heard the door open and close again did North draw in a shaky breath and sighed, relaxing his shoulders and hands again, gaze on the floor. "Coineach," came Ireland's voice softly, careful and gentle. "Are you alright?"

"Don't talk to me," Northern Ireland snapped at him, but then forced himself to relax again. "Did you know about this?" he demanded then. "When I called you last night, I mean. Did you know about this then?"  
Ireland just shook his head. "I thought something was strange only this morning," he explained calmly. "Yesterday, I was too caught up in the moment, like you. You sounded so scared, Coineach... I honestly thought something was wrong, just like you did. I began thinking while halfway on my way here, and when you said to me he seemed pretty much alright again now... that was all I needed."

"The fucking _bastard_ scared me half to death yesterday!" North said, raising his voice again, though his voice was quivering. "I had figured out something was off early in the afternoon already, but it went wrong so fast when he went after me... I thought- I was _terrified_, and now he's telling me it was to _help me?_ The stupid asshole!" He kicked the table, and clearly regretted it as he pulled his foot back again, putting less pressure on it than before, but he'd managed to knock over a glass that was on it, the water spilling over the table. Ireland took a deep breath and sighed, wanting to interfere but knowing better than to do so. He was just silently waiting for North to kick him out as well, knowing it would come soon. But for now, the boy seemed content to be ranting about what an inconsiderate bastard Scotland was. "I don't know how he managed to fake a fever," he said, close to a yell, eyes closed. "I don't _want _to know how he faked throwing up his guts! But -but _how could he?!_ Has he _no_ consideration at all?"

"He does," Ireland said softly, knowing this wasn't the best thing to say now, but he felt he _had _to defend his younger brother, not in this, but in general. "But there's some things going on, Coineach, that bother him a lot. He doesn't want to show it, but he's really been hurting a lot lately... He might not think too clearly about others' feelings because of that, or he doesn't care at times. To him, I guess, _we're_ the inconsiderate bastards sometimes." When he saw the look North gave him, the older nation quickly added, "I don't want to justify what he did, Coineach, I just want to say that he didn't want to hurt you. Not deliberately." Northern Ireland stared at him for a moment longer, holding his breath again for a moment, remembering what happened two days before. For Scotland to cry in front of his little brother for the first time ever, there must really be a lot of bottled up pain inside him. But it didn't justify lying to Northern Ireland like this. "I won't be quick to forgive him for this," the child muttered, not looking at Ireland as he spoke. "But I'll see about talking to him in a few days. Just give me some time." He then turned to Ireland, and to the older nation's relief, he seemed to have calmed down again. "He shouldn't have tried to make me talk to you," he said then, and Ireland just listened silently. "I would have talked to you of my own accord. Not yet, but... I would have. I swear I would have. Before the end of this year, maybe." He sighed and flopped down onto a chair behind him, not looking at Ireland as he whispered, "I missed you, Cearul."

Ireland blinked in surprise, smiling warmly. "I missed you, too, Coineach."

"But I still think you're insane."  
At this, Ireland laughed softly before answering, "Perhaps a little! Comes with the age, I guess. Senile old fool, hm?" But Northern Ireland didn't smile or laugh, and Ireland's smile faded again within seconds as well. The young nation shrugged uncomfortably as he said, "It wasn't a joke, Cearul."  
"I know," Ireland answered more softly, shaking his head. Didn't North see it hadn't been a laugh of joy at all? Probably not, with all the crap he was feeling himself at that moment. "But what else should I do, Coineach? Scream? Cry?" Ireland felt his fingers beginning to tremble, and the rest of his hands soon followed. That feeling of concrete in his chest he'd felt a year ago was back. Now that it was about the two of them, it was a lot harder to talk to Northern Ireland than it had been when Scotland had been the topic. "It's better to laugh, lad, even at our own misery, than to drown ourselves in it."

"I'd rather see you cry," Northern Ireland answered, still not looking at Ireland. "Then, at least, I'd know you really care." He then turned back to the older nation, seeing how his hands were trembling a bit, his gaze downcast and tears actually shimmering in the corners of his eyes. His heart beat a bit faster at this, and he quickly said, "No, Cearul, I- I didn't mean-!"

"I know," Ireland interrupted him softly, quickly wiping away the small tears that had welled up. "I know, and I'm sorry, Coineach. It's just... we haven't spoken in so long, and now that we're finally talking again..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath and simply looking North in the eyes for a moment. "I really missed you so much, Coineach. But I'd rather you had a chance to take your time before we saw each other again. I've had fourty-seven years longer to adjust to this than you, after all. But I do, I have to admit, wish you'd have spoken to me sooner. We could've solved this a long time ago if you had."  
"Don't blame me, Cearul!" Northern Ireland answered, raising his voice again a bit, some of the anger clearly rekindled. "There wouldn't be anything to solve, if only _you_ had told me the truth right from the beginning!"

"The truth..." Ireland echoed, getting hopeful. "That I'm your father?"  
"That you being my father is an _option_," North muttered back, averting his gaze once again, frowning. Ireland nodded, looking away as well as he softly concluded, "You still don't believe it."

"I don't believe I ever will," was North's only answer before he got up, one hand to his forehead and his eyes half-closed. "I'll just go and get some painkillers -you were right, having your people divided like this is hell- and you... you can stay here for tonight, Cearul, if you want. You've traveled a long way today already, and I'm not sending you away. However," he added, sounding a lot more serious and a lot colder as he glanced at Ireland, and the older nation almost flinched as he caught sight of the boy's eyes. He felt almost as if he were looking at an adult instead of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old at that moment. "I don't want to talk about any of this anymore today, got it? I'm only letting you stay because you've traveled a lot already." Ireland just nodded with a soft 'of course', and watched as the boy left the room. Wrong as his methods had been, Ireland realised, Scotland's plan had worked. Though he wondered for how long it would last.

* * *

**...**

**Yeah, perhaps that was a bit cliche there. But every story has a few cliches. When the entire story becomes a cliche, that's a problem, at least in my opinion, but one or two... nah.**

**Al is just... not really himself lately. A bit depressed, maybe, but only a little. And as for Artie, just guess what I'm slowly working toward~**

**As I wrote two chapters ago, _the thunder came in 1968_. But the hurrican is still yet to come (smirk)**

**Well, I hope you liked the chapter, thank you for reading, and please leave a review, even if it's a little one!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Thank _goodness_ it's over... the busiest period of school I've had so far. Weeks and weeks of tests, tons of homework, and, to top it off, an exchange with Germany! The latter was great, I have to admit, and I'm pretty certain I've made a very good new friend in the past three days, but it left me _exhausted._ Now I have a long weekend, half a day off, three full days in school and then _vacation_. Even if only for a week. Bless vacation. I love it.**

**Anyway, that was just my moment of happiness! Crossfire and Kawaz, thanks a lot for the reviews! Reading fanfiction in church, Crossfire? That's the first time I've heard something like that XD But whatever, really.**

**Be prepared for some Sealand stuff in this chapter, as well as England. I figured out only as I finished this chapter how much focus actually lies on them in this one (heh heh... oops!) (Also, warning: not so much father-son _kindness and love_ there... and some swearing. Or plenty of it.)**

**Well, here's chapter 21 of Trouble!**

* * *

"That sure is a nasty bruise, kid," England mused as he inspected the bruise that had formed on the back of Northern Ireland's shoulder after a battle between loyalists and nationalists. "But there's no cut or scrape, so you'll be perfectly fine." North nodded, putting his shirt back on and about to thank England, when- "Con-con!" came a squeaky voice then, and North sighed. Now that Sealand could speak, he spoke all the time. But, unable to pronounce certain names yet, he resorted to very annoying nicknames. 'Art' for England (not 'dad', never), 'Alice' for Scotland (he was reliving the many times young colonies called him that, poor guy), 'Cal' for Ireland and 'Con-con' for North. 'Dylan' was the only thing he pronounced right, much to the Welshman's joy. At least _he_ didn't get a stupid nickname like the rest of them.

Northern Ireland didn't stop him as the toddler climbed up onto his lap, looking up at his uncle with wide blue eyes. "Con-con pain?" he asked, one of the rare moments he didn't have the 'I'm gonna deceive you all with my cuteness then kill you in your sleep' air around him. He was truly a weird kid... though so far, the only one he'd tried to kill was England. And when he spotted his attempted murder weapon around the older nation's neck again, he squealed and reached for it, forgetting North for a moment. England only smirked when the boy's tiny hands clasped around his tie and began pulling at it. This time, it hardly had any effect. "Ha!" he sneered at the toddler that was apparently trying to choke him. "Now you can't kill me anymore, can you? Aw, is it a bit too loose? Can't you pull it tighter? Poor little boy..." North chuckeled as he saw the frustrated look on the boy's face, before Sealand let go of England's tie with a soft huff. "I don't think he's trying to kill you," he said, laughing softly. "But it sure looks like it!" He then turned around to look at his older brother, nodding to the loose-hanging tie around his neck. "So that's why you don't wear it properly inside the house?"

England nodded. "I figured, if it was loose enough, Peter would have a hard time pulling it tight enough to choke me with again." Then he shrugged and added, "Well, that, and it's more comfortable like this." North nodded, but gave the tie a weird look. Quite honestly, the way England was wearing it now, he might as well not wear it at all. The knot was hanging on his chest, just beneath the neck. But the older nation didn't seem bothered by it. But then, suddenly, pain struck Northern Ireland again, and he doubled over with a short, low groan, arms wrapped around his stomach. Sealand, who had just climbed off his lap again, tried to climb back onto it. "Con-con!" he squeaked. "Con pain?" North nodded, clenching his jaws. "_Yes, _Peter," he hissed inbetween his clenched teeth. "Yes, Con pain. _Lots _of pain." Unable to climb onto his lap now, Sealand just hugged North's knee in an attempt to comfort him, but North paid not attention to him as he tried to take a deep breath. Finally the pain subsided, and with a few deep breaths, he sat up again, picking up Sealand and placing him on his lap. "They're fighting each other too much lately," he muttered to no one in particular. "There are more deaths already than back with the entire Border Campaign of the IRA. And this has only lasted two years yet..." He sighed, and England patted him on the shoulder.

"These are things every nation has to go through, Coineach," he mumbled softly. "But I wish you could've stayed without this experience for a while longer." North nodded slowly, agreeing. So far, he thought, the IRA hadn't done much. These were Northern Ireland's own people, the two sides they were on. But he knew the IRA must be ready to pounce by now and join in the fight. And then there would be many more deaths, much more violence. And he knew that the pain he felt now would be nothing compared to the agony he'd go through then. Looking down at the toddler on his lap, who was just silently staring up at North's face, the young nation wished he could be as little as him again, with nothing to worry about, no comprehension of anything that went wrong. Life hurt, and life was scary. And he wished with all his heart that he could be reverted back to the state when he hadn't known what life was like. England patted him on the shoulder again, and North looked over his shoulder at the older nation. What had he gone through in life? Did he know what a civil war felt like? Because North imagined his people were pretty damn near that point, if not at it already. They just didn't call it a civil war yet. "You'll make it, kid," England reassured him with a warm smile. "Just like the rest of us have made it so far." He then got up, and let out a choked cough two seconds later as the knot of his tie pressed against his throat. Sealand had grabbed the end of it again, and let out a squeal of joy as he began playing with it, pulling on it and eventually...

"Oh, _yuck_," North muttered with a grimace. The toddler had just put it in his mouth and was sucking on it now as England leaned forward, loosened the knot and then quickly took it off. "Let the little prick have it!" he muttered with a sigh. "I hope he chokes _himself _with it for once!" When he saw the startled warning glance North shot him, he sighed again and said quickly, "Okay, I don't, I don't! But he can have the damn thing, if he thinks it's so tasty!"  
"Well, he's getting a few more teeth by now, isn't he?" North asked, looking down at Sealand again, who _did _seem to be enjoying the taste of cloth. "Don't babies and toddlers always suck on things and all that when they're getting teeth?"

"Gods, don't tell me about it," England mumbled, looking down at Sealand with a frown, though there was also a hint of warmth in his eyes, and North was happy to see he cared about the boy at least. "All the weird stuff you put into your mouth back in the day, Coineach! Or even worse -_America_. He ate flowers, grass stems, sucked on the edge of plates and once nearly choked on a button of my shirt he'd managed to pull loose. And I had a pretty hard time keeping him away from my guns and swords, or he'd try to eat those, too!" He laughed at those memories, and just by the joy in his older brother's voice, North almost started laughing along with him, though he could hardly imagine America as a toddler doing all that. More like a teenager doing all that. "Honestly, back then I could've known!" England choked out between the laughter. "That was the first sign he'd be eating cheap, unhealthy crap his entire life! No, little Peter is pretty normal so far, compared to America." He then stopped laughing, wiping a few tears of joy from his eyes. "Now, I have to go for a little bit. You'll look after Peter for me, won't you?"

Northern Ireland nodded, but Sealand wriggled out of his arms the moment England turned around to leave, and hobbled after him clumsily. "Art! Art!" he squeaked, spitting out the tie halfway. Stunned, England stopped and turned around, looking at the tiny boy that flung himself at his legs, hugging them tightly. Wide-eyed with shock, England bent down and picked him up, still not quite believing what was happening, as it was happening for the first time ever. But Sealand put his short arms around the nation's neck -without trying to choke him- and said softly, "Bye-bye Art." England blinked, and North didn't think he was breathing at all until he answered, "Y-yeah... bye, Peter. I-I'll be back soon, alright? Be good to your uncle for me now." He then put Sealand down again, who hobbled back to North immediately. Still gaping for a moment, England shook his head slowly, not believing what his son had just done. "That kid is too weird," he mumbled to himself as he turned around again and left. Northern Ireland looked down at Sealand, who had his little hands reaching up to the older boy as he squealed, "Pway! Pway!", and sighed. He sincerely hoped his people could stop the fighting for just one afternoon. How was he supposed to look after his nephew and 'pway' with him, if he was constantly stabbed with pain? "I wish they _all_ knew about us," he mused, sitting down on the floor and waiting for Sealand to grab whatever toy he wanted his uncle to play with him with. "Then, maybe, they would be a little more considerate..."

* * *

"We're quite the pair o'failures these days, aren't we?" Ireland sighed as he sat beside Scotland in a pub that evening, during the late spring 1970, a pint of stout in his hands. "We're terrible brothers an' a terrible father..." Scotland just nodded. For once, he could drink alcohol without bursting into uncontrolable laughter. They both resembled a drunk England more than their own drunken personalities at this point, really. "At least y'_are_ a father," Scotland muttered, then shook his head. "NO! Cearul, we should stop this!" he exclaimed suddenly, looking at his older brother intently. "We should stop feelin' sorry for ourselves _right now._" Ireland stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in confusion. He hadn't quite heard what Scotland was saying, but no matter, the Scot was ranting now, repeating the same message clearly. "No more self-pity an' _crap_, we gotta r'sume our roles as heads o'the family -wait, are we?- whatever, we're the oldest, let's just stop bein' th'crybabies we're bein' an'-"

"We're not, Allistair," Ireland interrupted him slowly, voice slurred. "With all this crap, I wonder how long anyone else'd last b'fore goin' insane like us..."  
"But we should be stronger than this!" Scotland protested, slamming his empty glass down on the bar, earning a glare from the bartender. But the Scot went on like he hadn't noticed -which he proabably hadn't. "We'll fight, aye? We'll fight the self-pity an' d'spair. We're stronger than that. We're Ireland and Scotland, f'God's sake!"  
"Right!" Ireland agreed, pumped up because of his younger brother's drunken speech. "Right y'are, lil' brother! We're fuckin' Ireland an' Scotland, we're two o'the oldest people in Europe -we're stronger than this!" He jumped up from where he sat with determination in his bloodshot eyes. "We'll fight for -what for?- whatever, we'll fight!" He stumbled then, nearly fell, still swaying where he stood. "C'mon, Al! We're outta here!"

"Good riddance," the bartender muttered, grabbing the money the two left on the bar then turning his back on the drunken pair. Scotland stumbled after Ireland out of the bar, and they weren't even halfway home (honestly they had no idea where they were) when Ireland mumbled weakly, "Al? Let's feel sorry for ourselves _one last night_ o'hugging the toilet an' _one more mornin' _o'godforsaken headaches, an' then we're done." Scotland just nodded, feeling just as sick as Ireland. He didn't know how much they'd been drinking, but the barkeeper must be rich by now. "After that," he mumbled, pushing his glasses straight in an hopeless attempt to make the world a little less fuzzy-looking. "After that, we're done. No more pityin' ourselves. Aye?"

"Aye!" The determined exclamation of agreement was followed by a grunt of utter discomfort, and Scotland patted his older brother on the back for a moment. "Just keep 't inside, Cear'l," he mumbled, swaying. "We're nearly home. I think. _Then _we can hug the toilet _all night long. _Y'have two in yer home, right? One each. Great."

"Yeah, but one of us'll have to make it upstairs for that..."

"...damn."

* * *

Violence increased throughout 1970, more death following more frequent battles. Somehow, Northern Ireland didn't feel all the pain anymore, or he was just getting used to it. Whatever it was, he was glad, though he did still feel most battles. But now, he had something much better on his mind. Something positive between all the pain and darkness. His fiftieth birthday was coming up as the end of April came closer. He hadn't really thought much about his birthdays for the past decade, as he had better things to think about, but this would be his fiftieth. In just a few days, he would be half a century old. And the next the family would truly celebrate would be his first century. And from there on, every century, as the others did. They had never celebrated anything like that for as long as North had been alive so far, but they had told him that, with each passing of the century, they made an even bigger party out of it than humans did. Just once every hundred years. North couldn't really imagine that, but he'd get used to it for sure, he decided.

Right now, he was just so excited that he was even happy to have both Ireland and Scotland here, while his relationship with both had been a bit rocky the past two years, nearly three in Ireland's case. All of them were downstairs at the breakfast table in Belfast (Ireland and Scotland had slept in the livingroom and Sealand had shared England's bed, with Wales in the same room. The house wasn't exactly built for so many people) and were discussing what they would do. "Half a century is something special," Ireland said over his bowl of cereal. "Especially yer first. We've got to do something we haven't done much before."

"No hiking?"  
"Definitely no hiking," North said, sticking his tongue out at Scotland. "I'm getting sick of your hiking trips." Then he got an idea, and piped up, "Except -if we go for a few days, and really go back to how you guys used to live when you were this age!"  
Wales blinked at him, smiling wryly. "That, Coineach," he explained, "would be alone in the woods, only me and Allistair in my case, with an abusive father in Artie's and still curled up to our mother in Al and Cearul's cases." Northern Ireland sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I just want to know what it's like to have to hunt for your food," he said. "And collect nuts and all that. You know, when you had my _physical_\- oh, never mind. _That_. That would be a great hiking trip. Otherwise, no thank you."

"Maybe Artie has an idea," Scotland mumbled. "But he's sleeping in -again. I don't know what that lad's doing at night, but his sleeping habits are gettin' weird." North nodded and jumped up, saying quickly that he would go wake the older nation. Scotland was right: England stayed up most of the nights lately, going out sometimes but not returning with a hangover, so he wasn't just heading to the pub. He just shrugged when his brothers asked him about it, saying it wasn't anything important. "Maybe he's got a relationship he doesn't want us to know about," Wales mused once, getting a weird look from Ireland, who then stated, "Yeah, Artie isn't like _you_, Dylan." To that, Wales had just shrugged and answered that he wasn't being secretive anymore at all, and besides, that relationship was slowly coming to an end as he and France had less contact than before. But this was one of the few things North agreed with Ireland on: whatever it was, England wasn't being weird out of some secret girl- or boyfriend.

As he entered the nation's bedroom none too quietly, England still lay snoring softly, only half under the covers and in a position that made North wonder how he'd even gotten in it. It didn't look too comfortable to sleep in, at least. He then spotted the nation's cassette deck, one of the sort North had in his room as well, and decided to play whatever was in it, just out of curiosity. The moment he hit play, he turned the volume down quickly, as he was met with something louder than he'd expected. A very prominent base, guitar and drums... definitely not what he'd expected. He thought it would be something of the likes England played himself sometimes: he had a violin, and though it was rarely used, he could play a few really beautiful pieces. But this... this was more rock-ish. The modern music the people listened to nowadays. Confused and a little startled by this, Northern Ireland hit stop again, noticing then that England was stirring behind him, woken by the music. North just quickly went over to him and shook him gently, acting as though he'd never touched that thing. "...What...?" England grumbled, turning around again. "Not yet... Too early..."

"Arthur, it's almost eleven," North sighed. "And we need you downstairs to help figure out what to do on my, er, 'half-centennial'. Wake up." England shifted again, blinking open one eye and staring up at the younger nation. Then he yawned, turning to face North and grouchingly blinking the sleep from his eyes. "What day is it again...?" he asked, biting back another yawn. North blinked at him, surprised and a bit startled. "It's sunday," he answered slowly, trying to sound calm. "That's your luck: it's past eleven, Arthur."

"It is?" England asked, more awake now, and shook his head. "Damn... Sorry, Coineach. You just go downstairs, I'll be down in a minute." North nodded, but didn't leave yet. First he asked what it was England had been doing the night before, as he _had _gone out again yesterday, and North hadn't been awake anymore by the time he'd come back, let alone went to bed. England shrugged. "I went to a club downtown, Coineach, nothing weird. Just... forget the worries of today's economy and politics. Once you're physically old enough, I'll take you with me once: you'll see, it works wonders." He yawned again, and laughed a bit. "Well, but you do have to make sure you get plenty of rest afterwards. And don't make a habit of it, or you'll collapse within weeks. That was my mistake here." He stretched and got to his feet then, still being stared at by Northern Ireland. As he was halfway done with getting dressed and the boy was still staring at him, he sighed, rolling his eyes as he said, "Look, Coineach, with the economy slowly going bad again, I just need some distraction sometimes, alright? There's nothing weird or unusual about that." He then quickly slid into a pair of jeans and went downstairs, beckoning for North to come with him.

"Laddie, what took ye so long?" Scotland complained to England as he came downstairs. "We're stuck here! We all know we want to do some'in special for Coineach's birthday, but no one has any idea what to do!" England sighed as he grabbed a slice of toast, smearing some butter onto it. "And why do you think _I'm_ the perfect choice to help you out with this?" he asked, clearly rethorically, but that didn't stop Ireland from answering the question. "Well, ye see," the oldest of the brothers said, shrugging. "Ye seem to know very well how to have fun lately. Y'have more experience on that than us recently, I'm sure." England just glared at him over his toast, huffing and not answering to that.  
Then, suddenly, a high-pitched voice sounded beside him. "Art!" Sealand called, and England turned around to look at him. The moment he did this, the toddler flicked a spoonfull of cereal and milk into his face, laughing and squealing in delight. England wasn't as delighted, throwing his now-ruined toast onto his plate and roaring, "Do you _want _me to hate you, you little shit?! In that case, well done! I hate you as much as you do me, you little fuckhead, mission accomplished! Now get the fuck out of my sight, or you'll regret it, damned prick!"

Sealand stared up at him wide-eyed, stunned silent and obviously scared of England now, as his lips began to tremble and his eyes got glassy with tears. But even as he began to sob softly, England's glare didn't soften one bit. The others just gaped at the scene. Sealand was a little pest, everyone knew that, but England had gone completely overboard now. Scotland then quickly reached forward and pulled the sobbing Sealand onto his lap, comforting the scared toddler as he sent his little brother a scorching glare. "What?!" England exclaimed at him, throwing his hands in the air. "What the hell?! Al, that little bastard always does stuff like this! And then there's also all of _you_, obsesssing over me first thing in the morning. Dammit, it's just clothes! It's just going out sometimes and _just_ some damned music, the world isn't ending! I'm not dying! So can you all _please _stop staring at me as though I'm going crazy, stop questioning every single thing I do? It's getting _beyond _annoying by now!" He then got up and walked away just like that, leaving the others to stare after him. The only sound in the room was Sealand's soft crying. Eventually, it was Northern Ireland who sighed, muttering, "Well, I thought we were trying to_ forget _everything bad for a moment..." He then glanced at Sealand, who was slowly growing silent, being comforted by gentle whispers from Scotland. He was pretty certain the young micro-nation would prefer to be raised as a brother instead, just like North had been himself. _What am I thinking about,_ he then scolded himself, shaking his head briefly and averting his gaze. _I am not 'raised as a younger brother', I __**am**__ their younger brother._ But still, if it were even true, he was pretty sure he would be better off with Ireland as his father than this toddler was with England. And then he thought vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if such a thing were possible, he'd have switched roles with Sealand in a heartbeat. He wouldn't mind being Ireland's son, if that meant Sealand could be their little brother instead. Even if just for the micro-nation's sake.

* * *

Eventually, England came back into the livingroom, having calmed down again. "Okay, I'm sorry," he apologised then, not looking any of the others in the eye as he spoke. "That... that was uncalled for, and I'm sorry for ruining this morning. But really, you're all making a fuss about nothing," he added, finally looking up. "As I said, it's just clothing and just some evenings out. I'm still me, so please stop interrogating me about every little thing I do. If I were dying, you'd have heard it already, so it's really nothing to worry about." He then took a long, deep breath and sighed, looking down at Sealand, who stared up at him with wide eyes once again. His expression was one of nervousness and slight fear, clearly thinking back to what had happened a little while earlier. He let out a soft squeak of protest as England knelt down beside him and patted him on the head gently. "As for you, Peter, I... I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have said all that. I promised you I would try to be a good father, remember? Well, I promised _myself_ that, too. I promised myself I would be a better father than Rome was to me. And I do plan on keeping my word, I really do, it's just..." He sighed again, his breath quivering as he did, and his voice was a little higher as he continued softly, "You just _have _to help me out sometimes, Peter. I know I'm not a saint when it comes to patience -in fact, I have the shortest temper in the family, and I'm aware of that- and I know I'm not always kind and warm and caring towards you... and I'm sorry. But how can I be, when you're not giving me a chance? That was _your_ end of the deal, remember?" His voice was audibly shaking as he added, "How can I be a decent father to you, if you won't acknowledge me as such?" He then lifted the boy, face on the same level as his own, and looked him straight in the eyes as he explained, "I never called my own father 'papa' or 'dad' or something like that. I called him Imperium Romanum, not even Rome, like everyone else did. And now, calling your parents by their name just seems so... cold and distant to me. So please, Peter, I'm begging you..." He paused for a moment, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat before asking in a tiny voice, "Can you please, for once, just call me papa? Even 'dad' would be okay with me, really... Just stop calling me by name, _please_."

Northern Ireland, as he was listening to this, glanced sidewards at Ireland. Did the older nation feel the same way? It seemed impossible to him, but even if North one day accepted him as a parent, he doubted he would ever call Ireland anything else than Cearul. He hadn't once imagined that the nickname he got from his son would bother England, but now that he saw that it did, he just couldn't help wondering if Ireland was bothered by it, too._ But you're not my father,_ North said in silence, and let go of any guilt he might have felt for a second with those silent words. _You're my brother, and you're Cearul. Nothing else._ He bit the inside of his lip as he turned back to look at the scene between England and Sealand. The toddler remained silent as he looked at his father, blinking a few times. The Englishman looked just about ready to give up, when the young micro-nation leaned forward, resting his head on England's shoulder and closing his eyes, completely at ease. England remained motionless for a moment, then let out a soft sigh of relief. "That's good enough for me, Peter," he mumbled. "Thank you, kid." He hugged the kid for a moment, then looked at Northern Ireland. "And, Coineach, it may not be something we can do with the entire family, but I think I've figured out a birthday present for you. Completely befitting someone who's already half a century old."  
Curious, North tipped his head to one side, waiting for England to reveal his plans. And when he did, he could hardly believe his ears. "How would you like to come with me to the UN gathering next month, Coineach?"

"Can I?" North exclaimed, completely forgetting how grumpy and rude England had been earlier that morning at the prospect of being taken to his first United Nations gathering. That was like a dream to him! He'd wanted to go to one from the day the UN had been established. When England nodded, he jumped up in sheer excitement and joy. "Thank you, Arthur! Really, thank you _so much!_" And then he finally did forget all the bad things, all the pain and fear among his people. Finally he could feel like a kid again for a moment, no need to act grown-up. Finally, he felt only excitement and joy. England just smiled at him.

* * *

**So the next chapter will be the UN gathering, amongst other things!  
And trust me, I will go much farther with England's punk phase (smirk)... this is nothing yet, obviously.**

**And you've finally heard the end of 'pity me' Scotland and Ireland. They're over it now! (I was getting annoyed with them myself, really...)**


	22. Chapter 22

**School's over for a week and I have no immediate homework after it... Bless the coming week! I have no plans as of yet, apart from reading, skating, gaming (gotta get back to Skyrim sometime) and writing, so there might be two chapters next week. Perhaps more, but I wouldn't count on it.**

**Crossfire, thanks for your review! I know, things between England and Sealand really are sad... But other than other 'Hetalia canon', I'm not exactly imagining him as a good parent to his colonies, either. "They always turned to England as their adoptive father, albeit not a very good one" and all that... But he's older now, more experienced, and this is still his _own_ kid, so one might expect him to be a little more loving... But he's him, so that probably won't work.  
And his punk phase _is _going to be fun! I'm having a lot of fun writing some of it right now, to be honest.**

**But for now, here's the new chapter!**

* * *

Northern Ireland tried his best to walk at a normal pace, dignified and gentlemanly like England beside him, but as he saw the building where the UN gathering would take place for the next few days, that was becoming quite hard. He was so excited, and seeing all the people and nations around him wasn't doing his calm demeanor any good, either. He spotted France rather quickly as the nation was talking to a few humans not too far away. China and Japan were talking to each other close by as well, though this conversation didn't seem to go as comfortably as France's with the humans went. At first he thought that was just their weird habits, but then he saw Japan shifting on his feet uncomfortably as China said something to him, and he realised that, for _Japan_ of all nations to react like this, things between them must be really tense. Looking the other way, he saw Netherlands sitting on a low wall a few metres away from them, a young woman beside him and, on the other side, a younger male. He realised they must be Belgium and Luxembourg, his siblings, whom Northern Ireland had never seen before. He wanted to go there and greet them, but he didn't know Netherlands all that well and didn't know the two others at all. That, and he had to stay with England, or at least for now. Once things were settled, he was sure England would allow him to go off on his own and meet new nations.

But his heart made a giant leap when he spotted West Germany beside someone else. "But he isn't a member of the UN, is he?" he wondered out loud, his eyes fixed on the other young nation. England followed his gaze, looking just as surprised at seeing the German nation. "He is here with Austria, apparently," he mumbled, and North looked at the other man -another nation, apparently. Next to the tall and broad-shouldered, well-musceled West Germany, he looked almost tiny and scrawny, even though he must be as tall as England, at least, and not much thinner, either. But comparing him to West Germany, it was obvious he was the older one of the two, with a calm posture and an air of dignity around him. But something about him told North that he wasn't quite as stern as he might look at first glance. So that was Austria? "Can I go to them?" North then asked, looking up at his older brother pleadingly. "Please? I want to see how Ludwig's doing." England just nodded, saying he would come, too, as he was curious to see why West Germany was here.

Austria was the first to spot them as the approached. "Ah, zhe United Kingdom arrived as vell, see? It's been a long time, England," he greeted the older of the two brothers. England nodded, saying a quick word of greeting to him as well, then looking at West Germany. "It's a surprise to see you here, West," he said calmly, but curiosity shone in his emerald eyes as he spoke. "What brings you here? Wish to become a member?" West nodded quickly, but before he could answer, Austria explained, "He just needed to get away from home for a moment, really, despite his protests that everyzhing is fine." He glanced at West for a moment, affection for his young cousin clear in his dark blue, almost purple-ish eyes. "Also, I vas hoping to find Hungary or Romania or any of zhem, and get zhem to tell Ludwig personally zhat Gilbert is doing fine."

"I know he is, Roderich," West said, looking away. "It's Gilbert ve're talking about. He somehow always manages..." He then sighed and turned back to look at England. "I'm not allowed into the meetings," he explained. "But I'm glad to be here, really. And I do hope to one day be accepted as a member, _ja._" Austria nodded at this, clearly agreeing with his cousin, then looked down at Northern Ireland. "And who is zhis young man? Norzhern Ireland, I take it?" North nodded and introduced himself quickly but politely, then turned to West. "How have you been, Ludwig?" West just shrugged, answering that he was fine, though it didn't sound like that. But he wasn't willing to dwell on that topic too long, and instead asked, "You're fifty now, aren't you? Time's flying by, isn't it?"

Northern Ireland nodded, confused. "How do you know that?" he asked, curious. West just shrugged again, answering, "Well, zhis year's my centennial in October, so zhat means you must be fifty. _Und_ I recall your birthday being in April, so-"  
"Your _centennial_ already?" Northern Ireland exclaimed, interrupting the German. "Wow! Congratulations, Ludwig!" West just blinked at him, not showing any emotion and not reacting to that, and North fell silent again, realising why the German nation wasn't quite as happy about that as North was. Not happy at all. _Because East wasn't there._ They still hadn't seen each other ever since February 1947, so they had been seperated for twenty-four years already. Northern Ireland could only imagine how terrible that must be... but he didn't even want to. Especially since all his other siblings were dead -the German States. North guessed West must have known them when he was little, but they all faded and disappeared over time, all except Free State Prussia... until just over two decades ago. North had known plenty of misfortune in his young life, but he could not imagine what West Germany had gone through in just twice that time.

England then said goodbye to the two Germanic nations, and North had no choice but to follow his example. Once inside, it wasn't long before the two UK nations spotted their oldest brother, and England leaned in closer to North. "Go to Cearul for a bit, would you?" he said in a whisper as they reached a counter. "This will be long and boring, and not important to you." North nodded, not asking any questions as the humans already started talking to England, and made his way to where Ireland was standing. "Hey, Cearul," he greeted him flatly, but the Irishman smiled as he saw the boy approach none the less. "How are you?" Ireland shrugged, answering that he was fine. Then he asked how North was enjoying his first day at the UN so far, and the boy's eyes began to shine. "There are so many nations here!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I never even imagined there'd be so many nations in the _world!_" Ireland laughed for a moment, nodding. "Before I came here," he said, "I never really imagined it to be quite like this, either. I knew about all these nations, of course, but I too had never seen so many together like this." As he said this, Northern Ireland glanced at the massive doors, which opened to reveal a few African countries walking in, and some Asians behind them. It all overwhelmed Northern Ireland for a moment, and he took a step closer to Ireland. As he saw all the nations and humans that had been outside a little while ago enter the building for the meeting that was due to start in just over an hour now, his heart pounded painfully against his ribs as realisation hit him. This was the world. This was the world, all gathered together in one building. It was amazing, awe-inspiring... and, somehow, terrifying. Before he realised it, he found himself pressed closely to Ireland, though much to his relief, the older Irish nation did not try to put an arm around his shoulder. He wasn't nearly ready for that again yet, and neither was he for this, so he quickly moved away from him again.

The meeting was long, tiring, but fascinating, and Northern Ireland was glad he could be here. The third day they were there, both he and England came down with a cold, however, due to the economy. North only sniffled from time to time, nose a bit stuffed, but England was doing quite a bit worse than that, though it was still nothing serious. "But we'll still go to meetings, and never turn anything down when another nation invites you to do something -to meet each other at a bar or something like that," England explained. "Though in your case, North, don't do the latter quite yet. But no matter how you might feel, as a nation, you have to look strong. You may crash and crumble one you're home, but in front of others, a nation must always do his best to appear strong and healthy." Northern Ireland was silent as he took in the lesson, one he'd heard several times before already. But now that it needed to be put into practice, he was happen to hear it one more time. "A nation can never look weak, for the good of his own people." And so they both did exactly that: went to the meetings every day, didn't turn down any oppertunity to speak to others and acted as if the economy was as strong as ever. Their human representators were pleased with that, though North guessed some of the other nations knew very well that the United Kingdom wasn't as healthy as they pretended to be: they didn't ask them to speak as much as the first few days anymore, and America didn't bother asking them to come over to his appartment in the city anymore, as he usually did according to England. "Of course," England admitted, shrugging, to finish his lesson to the young nation. "Others always have a way of finding out whose economy is strong and whose isn't, anyway."

* * *

The rest of the year passed as peacefully as it had ever since the battles in Northern Ireland started. The economy still wasn't going any better, and it seemed like it would take a while for it to get better again, and the entire family had occassional colds, some worse than the others. Wales was currently the victim of a rather bad one, so he, while he'd have normally stayed with North in Belfast for a few weeks, was at home in Cardiff right now and England had taken his place. The Welshman, however, had said he _would_ look after Sealand, when the boy started being difficult again and got on England's nerves a bit too much for his own good. And apparently, on 4 December that year, a week after he and England arrived in Belfast together, North was getting on his nerves, too.  
"Why are you so goddamn short-tempered lately, Arthur?" he asked the older nation, voice raised almost to a yell. England was tense, gritting his teeth, clearly fighting back his anger -whatever he was angry about. "Well, maybe because no one is really making an effort to stay on my good side?" he said, shrugging, glaring at his little brother. "Though, given, you're not nearly as bad as Peter is right now-"

"He's just a kid!" North protested, defending his nephew. "He's a toddler, Arthur, he doesn't know better! And what does Peter have to do with this, anyway? This is between _us._"  
"_I_ knew better at his age," England snapped. "Much better. All the things he's said and done to me so far -_my _father would've killed me for it! He's the devil, Coineach, that kid is not normal!"

"He's annoying as crap, I'll give you that," Northern Ireland answered, trying to stay calm but failing as miserably as England did. "But again, what does _he_ have to do with this? So I said I'm not that fond of the loyalists right now, big deal! They're acting like monsters, Arthur!" England huffed and muttered something North didn't catch, but the young teen didn't care. "Don't tell me what to do or what to think, Arthur, you don't understand, anyway!"  
At this, England started laughing, though his laugh sounded hollow. "Oh, there it is! Look who's hit puberty: 'adults don't understand me!' and all that whining. Let me tell you, Coineach, that's _bullocks_. I _do_ understand what it's like to have your people torn over something. And I'm not telling you what to do or think at all! I just said that you shouldn't turn against the loyalists like this: it's true that they've done bad things over the years, but so have the nationalists. You do see that, don't you?"

"You think this is _puberty?!_" North shrieked, letting his rage out now. "Fuck you, Arthur! And those fucking loyalists and nationalists can fucking screw it! They're Northern Irish people whether they like it or not, nothing's gonna change about that!" Furious, the young nation spun around and ran out of the house, and hearing England call after him did nothing to soothe his rage. "It's 'going to', dammit! Mind your grammar! And where do you think you're going, Coineach, it's well past seven!"  
"Out!" North yelled back. "That's what you do when you need to get away, isn't it? I know my own damned heart well enough not to get lost in it once night falls, idiot. And also,_ scriú Béarla!_" Then he left, hoping England would be stuck on his last words for a little while. Though, 'screw English' wasn't too hard to figure out, most likely. Then he hoped that, once the Englishman figured out what he'd said, he'd be _pissed._ Blowing up over little things seemed to be just what England liked to do, after all, and who was North to take away his hobby from him?

Fuming, he walked through the streets of his capital for a while, not even looking where he was going. He hadn't been lying: Belfast might be a large city, he knew it like the back of his hand by now. Anywhere he went, he'd find his way back again. The sun had gone down by the time he stopped to see where he was, though the streets were still busy. It must have been almost nine in the evening, he thought, as many people were entering the bar across the street. He wondered if he could go into that pub, convince his people that he was old enough -many people in Belfast, or at least the area he lived in, knew him, after all. And maybe he could get something to drink. That's what his brothers always seemed to do when they felt as bad as he did now, and it always worked for them, though they never failed to regret it the next morning. But once the hangover passed, they always seemed to feel better. He shrugged and just crossed the street. It couldn't hurt to try, could it? As he was halfway across the street, a car approached quickly, and he had to jump out of the way not to be hit. He glared at the driver as the man got out, but the human seemed to be in too much of a hurry to notice him. North just sighed and walked up to the bar instead, where immediately, the bouncer blocked his way. "Where are yer parents, kid?" he asked calmly, and North just rolled his eyes. "I don't _have_ parents," he answered honestly, though his voice was flat, edged with anger and frustration. The large human sighed. "Where's your _guardian,_ kid?"  
"Don't have any."  
"What _do_ you have? A passport to prove you're old enough to enter?"  
"Never mind," North grumbled, walking away again. Maybe he could just go to his usual spots, he thought to himself as he walked. Maybe sitting down under a tree and staring up at the stars would calm him down. Perhaps he could spend the night under one -no, it was December, it was far too cold for that. He sighed, wondering what to do after the trees. He didn't feel like going home yet. He didn't feel like doing anything, really, after-

He doubled over, a horrible stinging pain in his chest. He didn't get a chance to wonder what was wrong, when it suddenly came. He saw it first, then heard it, right before he felt it. A flash of light, an earsplitting noise, an agonising, burning pain. It faded as soon as it had come, leaving only unrelenting darkness, eerie silence and numbing cold.

* * *

Ireland was only half dressed when the phone rang, and he sighed, annoyed at how cold it was when not wearing a shirt, as he went down to answer it. He had just been about to go to bed early for a change, and he really wasn't up for a conversation with anyone now. He muttered something under his breath when he heard England's voice as he picked up the phone. That short-tempered bastard was the last person he wanted to talk to now, after the fight he had with him not too long ago. But when he heard the shiver in his little brother's voice, he listened intently, holding his breath. "C-Cearul, have you heard what happened yet...?" England asked tentatively, and Ireland, confused and startled, answered that he hadn't. "W-well then, I-I thought you might... might want to know... there's been a bombing in Belfast earlier this evening."  
Ireland had to force himself to breathe after this, a terrible feeling of dread creeping over him. Something about today had felt wrong, and this must have been it, he realised. "How is Coineach coping with it?" he asked, trying to sound calm, but worry for the child threatened to overwhelm him already. A few gunshots fired in one's capital could hurt a lot already, let alone a bombing, especially a large one like England's trembling voice suggested.

He wasn't quite prepared for what England told him next.  
"Well, t-that's what I'm calling you about," the younger nation stammered. "Cearul, I-I'm so sorry, I drove him away earlier today. If we hadn't fought-!"  
"Get to the point already, Arthur!" Ireland snapped, urging him on. He couldn't stand it if people procrastinated on important matters like this. He could already guess where this was going, though, but it still hit him like a bomb in his own heart when England said in a tiny voice, "He was there, Cearul..." Ireland stopped breathing at that point. Northern Ireland had left the house on this evening and went to that exact spot because of a fight with England, and then this happened? For a moment he could only think how cliche that was, what terrible coincidence that must be, then he wondered for a moment if fate just had a grudge against that boy for some unknown reason... then nothing anymore. His mind was blank, he couldn't think even a single word. England's voice sounded alien to him as his younger brother spoke to him. "A building collapsed, Cearul. Coineach had to be pulled out from under the debris... There won't be any scarring -not physically, at least- but for now, his injuries are pretty serious. A-a shattered shoulder, left leg broken in two places, three or f-four broken ribs, I think, and a few cracks in the h-hip and... and skull... Some minor internal damage -I think most of it had healed before he was even found- and then scratches and scrapes all over his back, arms, chest and face... He's in hospital now. I told them he'll be fine, but for now, they're keeping constant watch over him. P-plenty of painkillers, too, so he doesn't feel anything, I guess, but-"

"I'm coming over there," Ireland interrupted him, finally breathing again, his heart pounding against his ribs. "I'm coming over there right now."  
"And arrive in the middle of the night?" England demanded, voice still quivering but stronger now. "What are you planning to do, waltz right in? He's asleep, Cearul, and he's heavily drugged as of yet. And even _we_ are bound by visiting hours. I'm in the hospital, but I'm not allowed near him unless something serious happens -which it won't. Cearul, please, try to get some sleep, and we'll see you in the morning."

"First you tell me this," Ireland grumbled, having a hard time keeping his voice steady, "and then you tell me to get some _sleep?_ What do you think I am, heartless? Quite the opposite, I think my heart just gave out and I'm running solely on adrenaline right now! I'm coming your way and that's the end of it!" He slammed the phone down to make his point all the more clear, and then his knees felt like weak twigs. Northern Ireland had been in a bombing. His boy had been in a bombing.  
England had been there. England could -_should_\- have made sure North would stay with him, stay home, safe. It wasn't that hard, was it, to look after your younger family members? England had already proved to not be parent-material, but that it went _this_ far, that he couldn't even keep a young teenager safe when he was entrusted with the task of simply looking after him... Ireland clenched his fists. From the moment North could leave the hosptial, which would be soon, he would take the child with him. There was no way he would leave his son to England's poor excuse of 'care' after this. "If he's hurt too bad," he muttered under his breath as he went upstairs and put on his shirt again, ready to leave. "You're _so dead,_ Artie..."

* * *

When North woke up, he was in pain. His head hurt, his chest and hip hurt, and so did his left arm and leg. The latter two could not even move, no matter how hard he willed them to. Then he took a moment to open his eyes, blink the blur out of his vision and look around. Everything was so white: the walls, the ceiling, the sheets of the bed he was in...  
The bed. Why was he in a bed? His mind worked, but it was as though a fog lay in it, clouding his thoughts, and he just couldn't figure out where he was. He then heard a loud click, something squeaking, and he looked to his side to see two people entering the room. It took him a few seconds to recognise them as England and Ireland, both approaching him with relief shining in their eyes. Ireland was by his side first, and North stared up at him through half-opened eyes. "Coineach!" his father choked out, as if he could only just breathe again after minutes of holding his breath. "Gods, Coineach, I'm so glad to see you're awake..." Wait, _father_? Had he really just thought that? He closed his eyes for a moment, driving that thought far away from his mind, where it didn't belong. He blamed the fog in it, that he couldn't think clearly. Ireland his father... ridiculous. Lies. Impossible. Not true.

England then came to stand beside him as well, his eyes shimmering with deep guilt as he looked down on his younger brother._ Right. Brother._ "I'm so sorry, Coineach," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I should've made sure you stayed home... but then again, how could any of us see this coming?" Ireland glared at his younger brother when he said this, but remained silent, and England didn't even seem to have noticed. "Still, I'm really, terribly sorry. If I hadn't driven you away with that fight, this wouldn't have happened..." North just blinked at him sleepily, not nearly awake yet, and he doubted he would truly wake up for a while yet. He asked softly what it was that had happened that horrified both his older brothers like this, what made them so relieved to see him, and he was both shocked and not surprised at all when his voice came out as a weak rasp, barely comprehensible. England, still having understood the question, sighed for a moment then took a deep, quivering breath before answering, "There was a bombing, Coineach. In Belfast. You were there when it happened." North's eyes widened and he could feel his heart beat faster at this. England then explained a bit more of what happened, something about a building collapsing and North being buried under the debris for about two hours before being found, but the boy was hardly listening anymore. All the while England was explaining what happened, his voice quivering as he spoke, a single question burned in his foggy mind, and the moment his brother fell silent, he voiced it. "Who did this?"

The answer came from both Ireland and England, both at the same time, but both with a different one. "Loyalists," Ireland declared without hesitation, while at the same time, England said with hatred burning in his emerald eyes, "IRA." North watched silently as the two men glared at each other after this, and Ireland muttered angrily, "Do you honestly think _my_ people were behind this?"  
"I wouldn't put it past them," England answered without missing a beat, an equal amount of anger in his voice as he looked at his older brother. "They don't care about North or his people," he went on, narrowing his eyes in rage. "Only about themselves and _their_ Ireland. Your people have proven to be heartless monsters, Cearul, and _this_ is exactly what we all knew and feared would happen one day."

"_My_ people are heartless?" Ireland demanded, and North could practically see him swell with rage he tried to fight back, his face getting red and his muscles tensing. "Take a look in the mirror before accusing others of something, wanker. And you have absolutely no proof that the IRA had anything to do with this. I'm telling you, it was the loyalists: the pub that got attacked was frequented by Irish Catholics, after all. Nice target for them, hm?" England said something to that, voice quivering with anger now rather than worry or guilt, and North simply couldn't stand it anymore. "Stop it," he said flatly. "Both of you, stop." England and Ireland were both silent instantly, looking down at the young nation. Ireland was the first of the two to relax his shoulders again, letting go of his anger towards his younger brother for now. "I'm sorry, Coineach," he apologised softly. "We shouldn't be fighting in front of you like this..."

"You shouldn't be fighting at all," North answered softly, his voice still too hoarse to be any louder. "The IRA are bastards and the loyalists would _love_ to hurt the Catholics like this," he then stated. "I wouldn't put it past _either_ of them. Let's not worry about who did it quite yet." He wanted to know right now, right this instant, whose neck he should want to snap, but if that discussion only led to his brothers fighting, he could wait. "Now how long have I been here, and how long will I stay?"

"You only slept through the night," England answered, sounding calm again, his eyes warm instead of ablaze. "And you'll have to stay until your bones have healed, at least. Give it another two days at most." Northern Ireland nodded slowly, thinking for a moment. Then he made up his mind. "And when I'm going home again," he declared. "I'll be going home on my own." His heart pounded at this, but he hid his fear. He didn't want to be alone now, not after what happened. But he didn't want to choose either England or Ireland to stay with him, and to have them both with him would be to listen to their yelling at each other all day long. Being alone was the best option, as much as it scared him just now. The two older nations seemed surprised at this, and just when they were about to ask why, North lied, "I don't need anyone looking after me. Peter, however, does. Arthur, you have a son to look after," he added, looking at England before turning to Ireland. "And Cearul... you don't." He could see pain flash in the older nation's pale blue eyes at this, but he kept his mouth shut. "You have no reason to stay here. Please, both just go home. I'll be fine." He stared at them in silence until they both gave in, and England sighed. "I'll just go and give Dylan a call, then, that I'll be picking Peter up in two days..." And with that, he left, leaving the two Irish nations alone for a moment.

"Coineach, you..." Ireland said softly, wanting to look at North and look away at the same time. "You can't expect me to leave after this. I... I can't." Northern Ireland just let out a soft sigh, looking Ireland in the eyes. "This has nothing to do with you personally," he explained in a whisper. "This is because I don't want you and Arthur to fight. And every choice I can make other than this would lead to that. Even if I ask for Allistair to come... Arthur won't accept that." He blinked once, looking away again. "And neither would you." Ireland blinked once, then gave a short, tiny nod, not looking at North anymore, his eyes not really focused on anything. Northern Ireland kept watching him for a moment, nibbled on the inside of his lips for a moment as he wondered whether or not he should say out loud the words that lay on his tongue now. Then he averted his gaze, telling the older nation in a whisper, "You may hug me, Cearul." Ireland looked up again, a little surprised at this, and North just went on, "I know that's what you want, and I won't stop you, don't worry. Just be gentle with my shoulder, that's all I ask."

Ireland leaned down instantly, carefully wrapping his arms around North, beyond happy to be holding the young nation again for the first time in God knows how long. North didn't really hug him back, not wanting to move his good shoulder, knowing how much that would hurt his broken one and his sore chest, but he didn't hesitate to hide his face against his older brother's shoulder. The feeling of being held like this, the warmth and the familiar, warm scent of his brother brought back way too many memories of his earlier childhood. The days the world had been bright and beautiful. And he wondered, not for the first time, how different his life would have been if Ireland _had_ been his father. Would it even be different? Ireland had always more or less acted as such, anyway. The only difference, he figured, was that they would occassionally call each other 'papa' and 'son' or variations to those, instead of 'brother'.  
And that, now, they wouldn't be fighting over anything. That life would still be beautiful. That his entire world had never been shattered, and he wasn't left trying to pick up the pieces now, an impossible task, as the pieces were too many to ever pick up again.

He felt a cold shiver run through his spine, and his throat felt tight. No, he probably wouldn't have been happy with Ireland as his father: one day, he would have to be told the exact same thing he had been told now, that the nation _might_ be his father or he _might_ be his brother, that neither of the two was confirmed yet. And then his world would have shattered just the same. And knowing this, he just felt so angry. Whoever had designed his life was cruel, heartless. How could anyone fill a life with so much misery, when that life had only really just begun, when there were so many years yet to come and the future seemed just as dark as the present? "It's not fair," he rasped softly, words muffled by Ireland's shoulder, but still audible. "It's not fucking fair..."  
"I know, Coineach," Ireland whispered back, stroking the boy's hair gently. "I know." And Northern Ireland just cried, wishing, not to relive the life he once had, but not to live at all. It hurt too much. It hurt way too much.

* * *

**So, I just had to finish with angst again. You know me~**

**It's not going to be much different in the next chapter, I guess. At least not in the part I've written so far. Some angst, some happiness... a nice mix.**

**I hope you liked it, and thanks for reading!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hi again! I said I would be quick with new chapters, didn't I? (Well, honestly, this chapter was halfway done when I posted the last one after having that sitting in my files for three days... heh heh)**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review once again! Yeah, I know... This chapter has a little less suffering for the poor little nation. And less fights. And I agree with you on England. That's why I constantly let him refer back to Rome: "Look, I had a bastard as my father, I'm sorry that I don't know any better!"... something like that.**

**Well, as I said, less angst in this chapter for a change. A little more happiness for North (eventually) and England being '70s England: getting himself in trouble again ;)**

* * *

"Coineach, you don't have to be alone after what happened," Wales told the young nation over the phone the day after he first woke up in hospital. His bones had mostly healed, but the humans wanted to keep him here one more day, as his left leg was still a bit weak and he couldn't stand on it too long yet. His ribs were still sore, too, and so was his shoulder. "I know I'm not really in any condition to come to Belfast now," Wales continued, his voice quivering as he was holding back a cough. "But you could come here. Coineach, I know you don't want to be alone now," he added, sounding worried, "so please, don't torture yourself just because C-Cearul and Ar-" He broke off coughing now, and Northern Ireland just waited patiently until the bout passed. When Wales stopped coughing and croaked a soft apology, North just sighed. "N-no, Dylan, I'll be fine on my own," he said softly, though still as reluctant to actually be alone after tomorrow. "Don't worry about me: just focus on getting over that cold, okay?" Wales was silent for a moment, as though he was thinking of another way to try and convince North to come to Cardiff, but he then sighed and gave up. "Alright. But Coineach? I want you to call as many times as you feel you need: never mind the bill. That one's mine. Okay?" At this, North couldn't help but crack a smile, and he thanked his older brother, then said goodbye. He nibbled on the inside of his lip for a moment, wondering if he couldn't still ask Ireland or England to stay with him, or for England to indeed take him to Cardiff the next day on his way home. But he decided not to. Hobbling back to his room, he flinched at the pain in his leg, and felt that same anger and fear he'd felt when he heard about the bombing the day before. Things were getting out of hand, and he knew it all rested on him. All this was _his_ responsibility to take care of, and he doubted he could handle it all. His chest felt tight again, eyes pricking as tears were fighting to well up, but he bit them back. He'd cried enough lately. He wasn't weak like that.

But he also knew he wasn't as strong as he would want to be. As strong as he needed to be, if he wanted to get through all this well. And that was why he needed to get stronger, and why he wouldn't crawl to his brothers and hide like a little kid. He thought about West Germany again for a brief moment: at this age, he'd fought a world war, and fought without his older brother by his side for a long time. If he could do that, then so could North, the child figured. He could do this on his own, and he would.

* * *

And Sealand was gone again, barely a week after he'd picked him up again from Wales'. This time, England wasn't too happy about it. For a few days in a row, nearly a record, things between him and the toddler had actually been going well, and then the government called and told him to bring the boy to his 'landmass' for a week: he had to grow up there, too, they figured. And they were right, England had to admit. It was always best for a nation to grow up where he belonged. But Sealand wasn't a nation and he was his son and he belonged with _him_. Or else his uncles. But not some humans. Never some humans. He had wondered more than once how his opinion on the boy had changed so much. He still couldn't stand him more often than not, but at the same time he really loved him dearly, and never really liked being seperated from him for too long.

But he tried not to think of him too much now. Just like he had forced himself not to think about Northern Ireland, who had been home alone for a week now after that bombing. And he also didn't want to think about the economy, or politics, or any of that crap.  
Right now his mind was more busy wondering what the hell he'd just done to himself.  
He was just experimenting, really, nothing more. But the experiments were getting a little weird, even to himself. But, he soon decided, they were weird in a good way. Weird in the way he really liked. He never thought he'd ever be wearing make-up, as in his mind, that was something only women and France did, but it had become a little more common amongst his people lately. Definitely more common amongst the people he was surrounded by whenever he went out. And it was also nothing quite like the make-up most women wore, or the disgusting stuff France and his people had worn for a period of time. This was dark, centered around the eyes and solely the eyes. Some men wore dark purple or black lipstick, but that went a bit too far for him. Yet.

But he _did_ have plenty of black eyeliner now, as well as some black eyeshadow to make it fade out a bit instead of being sharp lines. And besides that, his nails were a dark blue. Well, and then there were his clothes. His brothers hadn't seen anything yet: if they saw what he was wearing now, in combination with the make-up and the accessories, they'd faint for sure, judging by their reactions to simple jeans and t-shirts. He was wearing a proper white shirt and a black waistcoat, thought that was about it. And though proper on itself, the way he wore his shirt wasn't anything near 'proper': hanging loose, reaching his thighs, and the buttons near the top not fastened, so it was open till halfway down his chest. And though he _was_ wearing a tie, it was one his brothers would probably never want to see aronud his neck: black and red diagonal stripes, with silver pins in it and small silver chains hanging from those, connecting some of the pins. And he wore it loose, at that. Not to mention the leather collar, the black-and-red fingerless gloves, fairly tight black jeans and _boots_. Black, leather, shiny, thick-soled boots. He loved them, really, but they were hidden away in some dark corner of his closet when any of his brothers was here. But he was pleased with his appearance now. At least this was something presentable. Where he was going, that is. He grinned, already looking forward to the bands that would play tonight, the people he knew would be there, and went out, locking the door behind him as he walked into the night.

It was quite the same as usual at the club he went to, his favourite here in London: music, dancing, talking, plenty of drinking as well... just what he liked. Right now he was standing at the bar, talking with a young woman. He knew better than to start anything with a human, but there was no harm in just a bit of flirting every now and then. He definitely wouldn't walk away if it was the human that approached him first, like this time. "I really do love that tie," she said, staring at said object as she held it loosely between her fingers. "But it's a shame, really," she added, looking England in the eyes for a moment, smirking, as she slowly pulled it a bit looser, lowering the knot, "that it hides that gorgeous chest beneath- oh." She fell silent for a moment, something flashing in her eyes, as she saw the scar on his chest, right across his heart. He just smirked and gently pulled her hands away. "It hides the nasty scar that ruins the chest beneath it," he simply said, willing the woman to look away from it. But something else lay in her eyes now, as she gently traced her fingertips along the scar. England didnt't try to stop her. "Well, that's a pity indeed," she said eventually, a grin returning to her lips now. "But still, it's a good shape, nice build... with the right piece of artwork, it _would_ be gorgeous, instead of just beautiful." A tattoo. England wasn't too sure about that. Sure, he liked such things now, but unlike humans who had to live a few meager decades with it if they started to dislike such a thing, he had to live with it for centuries if he ever decided to get some ink under his skin. Still, he did like the idea of it, and he made up his mind soon enough.

"I'm planning one," he told the woman, her contagious grin spreading on his lips now, too. "But not there. Somewhere people will have to... search a bit harder." The woman's grin grew wider at this, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she said, purred nearly, "I'm already looking forward to seeing it." England acted completely impulsively after that. Kissing this woman felt a little off, with the metal bulb near the tip of her tongue, but that piercing was all the more fun to play around with. The human thought so, too, apparently, completely going along with him. The kiss lasted quite a long time, and though they parted again after it, the rest of their bodies remained close enough. They stared at each other for a little while, and it wasn't long until England leaned forward to her, whispering in her ear, "We can just go and dance as well, you know. Always better than just standing here." She smirked, eyes closed for a moment, and whispered in response. "We can also _go_ and _dance_ all night long. Even better." England then felt the tip of her tongue going up his jawline, her piercing cold against his skin. For a split second he wasn't sure what to do, but then he decided. There was no harm in flirting every now and again, or in kissing someone sometimes. Surely one single night wouldn't be a problem. If they didn't even know each other's names yet, after all, how could there ever be any kind of attachment between them? This would just be for the heck of it, nothing special, nothing harmful. Just like the other things he'd done so far. Just another experiment.

* * *

The next morning, Northern Ireland was bothered by stings in and around his heart, as his people were fighting again. It was nothing major, but it had been going on for a while, and he really wanted to talk to one of his brothers now. He still didn't want to have to make the choice between England and Ireland, however, so seeing as Wales had said he'd always be available, even though he was still the UK, he just dialed his number. After waiting for a little while, he was about to give up, when the older nation suddenly picked up. "Hello?" he asked, a bit sleepy but sounding a lot better than he had a week ago. North smiled at that. "Hey, Dylan," he said softly. "It's me."  
"Coineach! Goodmorning, kid. How are you?" He really sounded a lot better already, and North was truly relieved at that. It almost made him forget the things going on in his own land right now.  
"I'm alright," he answered. "And I hear you are, too. But my people are fighting right now, and..." Wales sighed, finishing his sentence for him. "And it's scary. It hurts." North just nodded, remaining silent, but Wales got the message anyway. "It's good that you called me," he went on. "You may come here if you want to, you know. The offer still stands. Or I could come your way now-"

"You don't have to," Northern Ireland interrupted him, gripping the phone a little tighter. He didn't want to go to anyone else just yet, or let any of them come here. Another week, just another week, and then it would be fine. But not yet. "But I do like talking a bit longer, if you don't mind." And so they did just that: they talked, first about the situation with North's people, then the situation between England and Ireland, and then random topics. And then the conversation ended again, and North was left utterly alone once more. He sighed, looking at the clock briefly. It was nearly noon, so maybe he should think about having breakfast by now. He didn't feel like it, hadn't felt like it in days. But he knew he had to take care of himself, so he grudgingly went to the kitchen and baked himself an egg with some bacon. If he _had_ to eat, he figured, it might as well be something tasty: something that wouldn't make him dislike every bite of it. He knew this wasn't healthy, and he knew something was wrong, and that he should get help. But not yet. Not just yet. He was fine for now. He could do this.

But his mind was blank eventually, no emotions at all in his heart right then, and he decided to give another of his brothers a call. He didn't want fatherly worry right now, so he decided to call England instead. When the phone was picked up after a little while, North wasn't surprised to hear as slurred voice as though the older nation had just woken up, even though it was noon. "Wha's't...?" he asked flatly, not even bothering to greet whoever was calling him. North sighed. "It's me, Arthur. Coineach."  
"Hi Coin... wha's wrong?" Northern Ireland quickly explained how he was feeling right now, or the lack of feelings, rather, and England sighed eventually. "Oh, kid... I'm sorry to hear that. I-I'm not too good with dealing with that in others, I'm afraid, or myself for that matter. But Allistair helped Cearul a lot back near the start of this century." North was a little surprised at that. Ireland had gone through this, too? England just went on. "And on the matter of Cearul, he knows how to deal with periods like that now, too. I don't think you want a human psychriatic, do you? But you have to talk to someone, so I really recommend Al or Cearul. Alright?" North was silent for a moment, heart thumping. His two least favourite brothers at the moment... really? _They_ were the experts on this?  
"Can't you try?" he asked, having to stop himself from sounding whiny. "Or Dylan?"  
But England was very clear. "No, I'm sorry. Coineach, if you want to feel better as soon as possible, it's either one of those two. Dylan and I can help you, yes, but not as quickly and effectively as those two. And besides, despite what you try to make yourself think sometimes, you still love both of them." Gods, he could read minds right now. "Call them. Promise me you will, will you?"

Northern Ireland hesitated, thinking for a moment. Then he gave in with a sigh. "Alright, I will. Thanks for the tip, Arthur." England, his voice warm again for a change, just said quietly that it was alright. "Take care now, Coineach. I love you, kid." At this, North finally managed a smile again, and he answered that he loved him, too. And he did, very much, despite how annoying England could be sometimes. He figured that, for his older brother to be this easily angered lately, he must be really bothered by some things, just like Scotland had been a while ago. And wasn't North just like that now, too? He couldn't take much from his brothers lately, could he? He couldn't blame England for it, he then decided, if he wasn't much better himself at that moment. And he also decided to make the decision he hadn't thought he ever would again: he would give Ireland a chance. And though he wouldn't accept him as a father, he never would, he would give him a chance to be father_ly_, if that was what he wanted. And maybe, against all his expectations... he would be happy like that for a little while. Maybe.

* * *

"Who was that?" Erin asked England. Erin -that was her name. He knew he was in trouble at this point. She'd asked his name on the way back home, and not thinking, he'd answered. And then she told him hers. That was only the first line he's crossed the previous night -the rest of the night together had been the second, third and every single one after that. But he couldn't bring himself to send her away just yet, still trying to be a gentleman. And from there on, hopefully, she thought the same thing he did and wouldn't try to contact him again, just like he would do his best to forget this human as quickly as he could. He just smiled at her now. "That was my younger brother: there are a few things going on that are really bothering him, and he just needed to talk to someone." Erin nodded, a tiny smile on her lips. She was only half dressed yet, like England himself, and not for the first time he felt a pang of guilt as he could only think of how beautiful she was for a moment. They had only just woken up, really, and while England had been on the phone with North, the human had gone to the bathroom for a moment. She blinked curiously at the nation as she asked casually, "Whose room is that other one, by the way? I strayed into it by accident... thought it was the bathroom."

England's heart sank, and he stammered, "T-that's Peter's room... He's my son."  
Erin just looked at him with carefully hidden curiosity as she asked, "You have a son? How old is he?" England was silent for a brief moment. Sealand was four, but England was physically obviously too young for a child that age -he'd have been a teen when he got him, then. And besides, the micro-nation looked younger that that. "He's two," he answered calmly. "He's staying with his uncle for a few days now." Erin smiled, though something flashed in her eyes as she went on, "And his mom? You're married?"  
"No, of course not."  
"Girlfriend?"  
"No," England said, losing his calm a bit now. When he realised he'd get into trouble for his actions last night, he hadn't thought they would be like this, and he'd thought they'd be awkward in a completely different way. "No, nothing like that. I... haven't seen her since Peter's birth, really." Erin seemed satisfied at hearing this, and England's heart sank even deeper at this. _You're not supposed to care, _he yelled at her in silence. _You're not supposed to care about that -there's nothing serious going on between us! Don't expect anything more than last night! You __**should not care**__!_ He didn't feel any more at ease as they went downstairs together and had breakfast. He couldn't wait to send this human away again and forget all about his stupidity. He knew this woman would be offended if he sent her away in an hour or so and never contacted her again, but there was no other option. And really, how could he tell her the truth? Should he really just tell her he was _England?_ The explanation of why they should never see each other again would be easier, sure, but he didn't think she would feel any better knowing she'd been sleeping with her goddamn _nation_ last night. And besides, he'd rather no one knew it was a nation, the 'gentleman of the world', going to clubs like the one he went to last night, mingling with the uprising 'punk' culture. The Queen would kill him, and so would his Prime Minister. Not to mention his reputation amongst other nations would shatter in a second if this ever came out.

But at least he knew for sure that he wouldn't go out anymore for a long, long time after this. There was no harm in flirting every now and again. Unless it led to this.

* * *

Ireland was happy to have North over, happy that the child had chosen _him_ to help him right now. And even more so now that North had told him he was allowed not to hold back too much these few days: he was allowed to treat him as his son, to a certain extent. The boy hadn't complained when the older natoin put an arm around him for comfort after North had told him about how he'd been the past week. On the contrary, he hugged him back, not letting go of him even after Ireland had let _him_ go. "Sometimes I just don't want to be quite as grown up as I am," North had mumbled, still leaning against Ireland's shoulder with his cheek. "Sometimes I wish to be as little as Peter... or to not even live." Those words stung to Ireland. He could very well understand the first part. But that Northern Ireland wished to be dead from time to time, that came as a dagger to his heart. He couldn't have expected any better, but it hurt to know how much the boy was hurting. He wished he could help him better, ease the suffering, and he now got that chance, though only for a little while. He would do his best.

By the end of that evening, Northern Ireland felt like he could finally forget the troubles with his people for a little while, something he'd never expected he could when in Ireland's presence. But he felt a bit like a human, he thought, bothered by the things going on in Northern Ireland but not directly affected. He didn't think he'd ever be free of worry and anger about what was going on, but he hoped he could have moments like this more often. Moments where he could sit beside one of his brothers on the couch, leaning back and watching a film. The quality of those things was even better than they were almost thirty years ago, and though North was amazed as well, Ireland was stunned silent. At one ponit, the old nation just shook his head and sighed, mumbling something to himself. Then he looked at North and ruffled his hair a bit. "I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself for a change, lad," he said with a warm smile. "And that at leat you're eating properly as well."

Northern Ireland huffed softly and looked up at him. "_Properly?_" he echoed with disbelief in his voice. "Cearul, that wasn't _properly_, that was _beyond properly!_ You shouldn't have made that stew."  
"You asked for it yourself. And you helped make it, so don't blame just me that it was good."  
'It wasn't good, it was delicious!" North then sighed, playfully pushing Ireland away from him, sticking his tongue out at the older nation. "I know technology scares you," he joked, "but shut up and watch the film, grandpa!" Ireland chuckled softly at that, and North joined in seconds later. "I really _am_ old, huh?" Ireland mumbled after a few minutes, not looking away from the screen this time, and North turned to look at him again, mocking a glare. "So old that you don't remember what I told you just minutes ago," he muttered, though there was no anger in his voice. He spoke a bit louder and slowly now, as if he were really speaking to a partially deaf old man. "Shut-up-and-watch-the-film!"  
Ireland, going along with the joke, leaned in closer and said in a raspy voice, "What? Can't hear you, laddie!" Then he shook his head and got to his feet. "Honestly, the youth these days... no respect for their elders!"

"You make a v_ery_ convincing old man, Cearul," North called after him as the older nation went into the kitchen to get them both something to drink. He heard Ireland bark a short laugh, before calling back, "Maybe because I_ am _one!" Northern Ireland just chuckled again, turning back to watch the film. Maybe Ireland wasn't that bad after all. Not always, at least.

* * *

**Okay, blame England's actions in this chapter on my mom. When I mentioned I was making one of the characters a punk, she was kind enough to remind me that I couldn't forget a few aspects of the punk culture then, mixed with British drinking culture: waking up in the morning beside a stranger and not knowing how you ended up that way and completely regretting it. And then some things, but you'll see that later ;)**

**And I couldn't help it. I had to throw in some North and Ireland stuff. They're trying to make their relationship a bit better again, but... well, if you know this history a bit, you know what happens eventually. Sorry.**

**Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it! Please leave a review on your way out, and I'm off to Skyrim now! Ciao!**


	24. Chapter 24

**This chapter is a grand 9 pages long, that's 5,864 words... longest chapter yet, perhaps.**

**I didn't think I would ever say this again, but I'm sorry if the many updates are getting annoying! These chapters are just flying out of my fingertips now, and I'm too impatient to have the chapters sitting in my files for more than a day. If I write something, I want to share it... -_-'**

**This chapter in particular went very fast compared to the size of it.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! No, I don't think England's punk phase is going to be healthy in the long run, either... And thanks a lot for that compliment! Oh, and Rayline Li, thanks for the follow!**

**Now, it's a national holiday here, and what do I do? Post an angsty chapter, of course! How better to celebrate, huh? I hope you'll enjoy!**

* * *

Scotland, being with England on the platform that was supposedly Sealand to pick the boy up again and spend some time in London with his little brother, noticed immediately that something was off about the younger nation. He greeted Sealand warmly as the toddler hobbled over to him, jumping into his outstretched arms. He didn't hesitate to hug the child, tell him softly that he'd missed him, and he sounded genuine when he did that. Despite the envy still being there deep inside, this warmed Scotland's heart. Perhaps one day England would be a father the young boy deserved, and he himself deserved to be, as well. He was really trying his best, and since his outburst last year, he hadn't really yelled at the child anymore, claimed to hate him, anything like that. If Sealand stayed with either of his uncles for some time, it was usually on England's request, knowing he was nearing the limits of his patience and not wanting to risk hurting the toddler eventually. It never took him more than a few days to calm down again, and then, unless Scotland or Wales asked themselves if they could keep looking after the boy, he would usually come pick him up again. He was trying his best, and improving, though slower than than Scotland liked.

But as the boy ran off to play a bit more before going home and England watched him for a while, a small, warm smile on his lips, Scotland noticed not for the first time that his younger brother was a bit twitchy, as if something was bothering him. He nearly jumped in shock when Scotland walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Damn, Allistair," he said softly, smiling sheepishly at the older nation. "You startled me good there."  
"What's the matter, Artie?" Scotland just asked, not reacting to that and simply asking the question burning in his mind. "What happened? Yer actin' weird, laddie."  
England stared at him for a moment, blinking a few times before sighing. It surprised Scotland when he didn't have to press further for an answer, and England confessed without any problems. "Well, two nights ago, I... kind of made a mistake..." Oh dear. Scotland could guess where this was going. 'Nights' and 'mistakes' usually only went together in the same sentence if a second person was involved. And when England shuddered and sighed, continuing more softly with pink-tinted cheeks, he wasn't surprised. "With a human." Still a stupid mistake to make, though. Easy, but very stupid.  
"Well, there are worse things ye could've done, Artie," he sighed eventually, giving his younger brother a firm pat on the back. "But I hope ye once again learned a lesson from it."

"Oh, I did," England answered immediately, looking up at Scotland now, looking very serious again for a change. "Always be careful around _these_ kinds of humans, and _yes_, there _is_ harm in 'merely' flirting. Don't worry, Al, I've completely been reminded of that." His cheeks then turned a deeper shade of colour, a darker red almost, as he added. "And... and I've learned _another_ lesson, as well."  
Surprised, Scotland raised an eyebrow at this, asking in slight confusion, "Which is?"  
The blush now spread through the rest of England's face as he said in a tiny, barely audible voice and a slight shiver delight in it, "There's _so much _one can do with a tongue piercing!"

The Scot just stared at him for a moment, surprised and confused for a moment as this hadn't nearly been what he'd expected, but then burst into laughter. England stared at him, trying to hold back his own laughter, but joined in soon enough. It was so ridiculous! So typically _him_ nowadays. When the laughter subsided a bit again, Scotland couldn't help but stare at his little brother with slight worry in his eyes. "But that's the kind o'people ye spend time with these days?" he asked, and when England looked at him in confusion, he went on, "The kind o'people with piercings, who go out every other night and dun'care 'bout waking up next to a stranger the next morning?" England was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "More or less," he confessed. "Though I'm not nearly as bad as what you just described. And I'm not going to another club for a _while_ after this. Not for the rest of the year, at least."  
"Great. Another three weeks," Scotland said sarcastically, only half joking. He didn't think those were really the right people for England to be around. But on the other hand, England was nearly two-thousand. He could take care of himself, surely. And then again, this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this.  
"But seriously, Al," England said eventually before calling Sealand to go home. "I know it's against the rules... but you've _got _to try someone with a tongue piercing. You'll be amazed."

* * *

Throughout 1972, Northern Ireland realised that he had been wrong the year before. Ireland _was _that bad. He claimed to not be involved with the IRA in any way, but North was pretty sure he was, and blamed him for the hundreds of casualties the year had already seen. The many bombings. The countless fights. England, too, was to blame for a lot of his suffering. Early that year, on 30 January, British soldiers had acted against a protest march. They had shot many unarmed, innocent citizens in the city of Derry, killing 13 immediately, and a 14th died months later from effects of his injuries. The day had gotten the nickname Bloody Sunday, a very fitting name in Northern Ireland's opinion.

He was in Cardiff now with Wales. He didn't want to be with Ireland anymore, and also rather avoided England. And he rather spent time with Wales than with Scotland. The middle brother was the only one to have never lied to him like the others had. Yet. He had been one of the four keeping the secret about his uncertain relationship with his _probable_ brothers, but that had been a lie they'd all decided on together, and he couldn't blame Wales too much for it. But he was practically the only one who had never really hurt him before, and he was most comfortable around him now, having lived with him for months already, since the start of spring. It was summer now, late July, and they had just returned from a long morning in the hills not too far away on horseback. Wales had two horses again now since a few years. North remembered the black horse Cythraul, but realising that he couldn't give him the much-needed exercise anymore in his wheelchair, Wales had sold him when North was three. Memories of the animal were vague, and he only remembered that, while Wales had loved him dearly, Ireland and Scotland had been more neutral about him (though Scotland leaned more toward disliking the horse) and England found his name, 'Demon', all too fitting. North liked the two younger animals well enough, though he wasn't too comfortable riding them yet: he wasn't the expert Wales was even after decades of not riding.

They were just inside, having brought the horses to their stables for rest, and North was getting him and Wales a glass of fresh pear juice, with a bit of lemon in it. It was a nice combination, and was delicious in this warm weather. Wales was already sitting in the livingroom after having opened some of the windows to let fresh air in, when North walked in with their drinks. The boy seemed at ease and happy enough, Wales noted with joy, happy and somewhat proud that he managed to take care of North's physical _and _mental well-being like this. He seemed perfectly alright, other than a few months ago, when he first came here.  
But almost as if to prove him wrong, one glass slipped from North's hand suddenly, shattering on the ground, the drink spilling over the floor. At first Wales thought it was an accident, that North had misjudged his grip on the glass. But then, a split second later, the boy brought his now free hand to his heart, gripping it in pain and closing his eyes tightly. He quickly put the second glass on the table, hoping to save at least that one and not break something else, then let out a choked cry. Wales jumped to his feet and was beside the young nation in a heartbeat, holding him by the shoulders. Northern Ireland was shaking from head to toes, holding his breath for a moment. It took him a minute to calm down again and control his breathing, and Wales forced him to sit down and take it easy for a moment. "I'll go clean this up," he said to the young teen, gesturing to the shards of glass on the floor. "And I'll get myself another glass, alright? You just drink that one, take your time to recover from this one. It was a bomb, wasn't it?"

North nodded slowly. "In Belfast. At least, I think it was a bomb. The IRA have been using them a lot this year." Wales nodded, rage against the organisation for hurting his little brother like this bubbling up inside of him. This whole conflict was pointless so far: nothing came from it but death, pain, uncertainty and suffering, not only for this family but for many people from Northern Ireland, but also the Republic of Ireland and Great Britain, now that the IRA and British soldiers were involved as well. He busied himself with cleaning and pouring himself another drink as North took tiny sips from his, still a bit shaky. But Wales only just sat down opposite of Northern Ireland when the boy doubled over again, gritting his teeth and wrapping his arms tightly around his own chest. Worry spread through Wales now faster than the rage as he looked at the clock. Roughly a quarter past two. It had been just about five minutes since the previous attack, and if him holding his chest was anything to go by, this was in Belfast again. He went over to North and knelt down beside him, a hand comfortingly on his back as the boy struggled to breathe through the pain for a moment. Then the young nation let out a shaky sigh and looked at Wales. "This was one heavier than the other one just now," he told him softly. "Though I don't think any people were killed -nor with the other one a few minutes ago."

"Are you okay now, Coineach?" Wales just asked softly, trying to hide the pity in his eyes and voice. He knew that was the last thing North wanted right now: comfort was alright, pity wasn't accepted. Northern Ireland just nodded slowly, straightening himself again, saying he was fine now, though his hands were still a bit shaky and worry lay clear in his pale emerald eyes. Wales only sighed, knowing he couldn't do much to help his little brother, and that North wouldn't let him, at that. But his heart pounded painfully against his ribs when, only a few minutes later, there was another bomb. "Coineach, we've got to check with your government now!" he urged the boy. "There's definitely something big going on in Belfast, and this -this isn't healthy!" But North shook his head, insisted that he was fine. Wales managed to make him lie down for a moment, trying to recover from these attacks for now, and he stayed beside his little brother all the time now.

It went well for about twenty minutes. When the first fifteen had passed, North looked up at his big brother and said, "see? I'm fine. It's done now." But barely five minutes later, he curled up, his muscles contracting as he gritted his teeth in pain. That was the fourth bomb in an hour, and all were in Belfast, for all Wales could tell. He stroked North's hair gently, hoping the gesture would be just the amount of comfort the young nation could accept, and whispered words of reassurance for a moment. But at this point, Northern Ireland hardly tried to stop him anymore. He was in too much pain for that, and after this many bombs in barely fourty minutes, he was getting scared. This time, he was barely given any time to recover from it when the strongest pain yet hit his heart, sending spasms through his chest down to his abdomen. As the boy let out a scream of pain, Wales knew that this time, people were killed. And not too few of them, either. When North screamed a second time, curling up around himself and gripping his chest with both hands, Wales could no longer stand just watching like this. Knowing he wouldn't get protests anymore now, and not caring if he got them, anyway, he lifted North's tense body, pulling him onto his lap and holding him tightly but gently. "It'll be okay, Coineach," he whispered softly, trying to reassure himself as much as the boy. "It'll be okay. It'll be over soon." Over in what way? Would Belfast be destroyed? Would North end up in hospital again? He was almost as scared as the young nation was, but held him just the same, whispering words of comfort and stroking his hair comfortingly after North let out another heart-wrenching scream.

Wales watched the clock from time to time in worry and fear as he held his little brother like that. Roughly ten to three. Then five. Three o'clock. Still there came no end to the bombings and the fear and pain they caused, and for a moment the older nation wondered if there ever would be an end to them. He could feel the spasms going through his little brother's body, which suddenly felt so small and frail in his arms, and the boy was writhing in pain now. What hurt the most to Wales was knowing he couldn't do anything to help him: he could even call an ambulance, and North would not be able to be helped by anyone. That horrible, terrible pain would just continue as long as the bombings did. The most Wales could do for him was what he was doing already: staying with him, holding and comforting him, hoping the boy would pass out from pain soon so that he didn't have to feel the rest anymore. And somewhere deep inside, Wales guiltily realised he also hoped North would pass out just so he wouldn't have to hear the young nation's terrible screeches of agony anymore. An eternity seemed to have passed, and as North lay in his arms, crying in pain and fear and desperation, he shot the clock another glance. Five past three. An hour had passed since the first bomb, one that had seemed harmless enough at first glance. Was there no end to this nightmare?

North convulsed, another spasm of pain passing through his body, and he barely managed to lean aside, face away from Wales, before he threw up in sheer pain. Wales was horrified to see specks of red among the vomit, which he recognised with a shiver as blood. He held Northern Ireland tighter now, thought still careful and gentle, holding him against his chest. He didn't care if North would throw up again, on him this time, didn't care that his chest and right shoulder were soaked with tears after mere seconds already. All he cared about was comforting the young nation now as best he could. "It will be okay, Coineach," he whispered to him again, forcing himself to sound calm. "You'll be fine. I'm here for you. You'll be fine." Northern Ireland wasn't screaming anymore now, and was hardly crying anymore, either, compared to a few minutes ago, not having the energy for that anymore at this point. Another ten minutes passed, and when, just past a quater past three, North got a little more quiet and a little less tense, Wales finally had hope that the ordeal was over now. North opened his eyes to look up at Wales now, his eyes dull with pain, and the older nation felt sick himself as he realised fully that the nation was still a child. He was still just a child, and he was experiencing things as horrible as today already. He wanted to cry out, scream at the skies that whatever was up there, controlling the boy's fate, was cruel and heartless, but he couldn't even move his lips, let alone get a sound over them. "I-is it over now...?" North asked feebly, and Wales just gave a short, slow nod. "Yes," he answered, voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, I think so. I think so, Coineach. You're okay now."

The next fifteen minutes passed, and there were two more bombs near half past three, though they were not nearly as bad as the ones before it had been. North lay limp and shaking in his brother's arms now, eyes closed and breathing slowly and deeply, and Wales had to do his best to keep calm now. But he had to stay calm, for the sake of the poor young nation leaning against his chest, listening silently to his older brother's heartbeat. When another fifteen minutes passed and no more bombs came, he gently shook the boy to get his attention. North looked up at Wales again, silenly waiting for what his brother had to say. "Come on, little one," Wales whispered softly to North. He hadn't called him 'little one' for years, as North didn't like it, but he couldn't very well think of something else to say now. "Let's get you cleaned up and to bed, alright?" North just nodded, but didn't move after that, and Wales realised how drained he must be. The past ninety minutes had taken all the energy he had in his young body, it seemed. But as Wales got up, still holding North, he figured that he would have no trouble carrying him up the stairs: he might be thirteen, he might reach Wales' shoulders already and be getting broader shoulders than a few years ago, he seemed so tiny and frail now, so light. Wales almost felt as if he were carrying Sealand, the weight in his arms didn't seem to different at this moment.

He quietly undressed North as the boy didn't seem quite able to do even that himself after this hellish ordeal, put him under a warm shower for a few minutes while holding him by the shoulders the stop him from collapsing already, then wrapped a towel around him. Northern Ireland was terribly apathetic all that time, his eyes dull and his expression blank. He was exhausted after the bombings, and didn't seem to care that Wales was caring for him as though he were as helpless as his tiny nephew was. He didn't even seem aware that he was being taken care of like that. As he was drying his little brother a bit, Wales' eyes were fixed on the dark bruise on the boy's heart, and his stomach twisted just looking at it. Eventually, when North wasn't dripping wet anymore, he gently pulled the young nation along to his room to get him in bed. But after just a few steps, North's knees buckled and he collapsed. Feeling a stab of pity for the exhausted boy, Wales silently picked him up again and carried him to his bed, pulling the covers over his shivering body once the young nation was lying in it. Northern Ireland closed his eyes the moment his head hit his pillow, his breathing slow and deep already. Wales was actually planning to go downstairs for now, clean his couch and floor where North had thrown up, but he couldn't take a single step before his little brother rasped weakly, "D-Dylan, please... s-stay with me now..." Wales stared at him for a moment, feeling so bad for the child, and nodded slowly. "Of course." Then he just sat down beside him, North holding one of his hands almost instantly and Wales just stroking his little brother's hair again until the boy fell asleep minutes later. And even then, he couldn't bring himself to leave yet. He would clean up later. He needed to stay with Northern Ireland now, after this dreadful Friday. And looking down at Northern Ireland now, he found himself talking to his mother in his mind, something he rarely did, pleading with her to keep the little nation safe from now on. _Please, mom_, he begged in silence._ Please, watch over him. Allow him a normal childhood, free of fear and agony like this. Stay with my little brother now._ He felt a strange sense of anger when there came no answer to his silent pleas.

* * *

England stood in front of two men, both adults, towering over the toddler. One was familiar to him by now, much to his dismay. The other was a stranger to him. "Britannius," Rome spoke coldly, looking down at his tiny son. "This is Caesar Claudius, your emperor." England looked at the intimidating empire a moment longer, then looked at Emperor Claudius instead. He'd heard this man had been the emperor to take over the land of Britannia, which now consisted of England and another immortal boy he'd only heard mentions of. His father had told him that boy was his brother, just like the northern immortal, Caledonia, whom he'd also never seen yet. This human, he realised, was the sole reason England had even been born: if he hadn't brought Rome to Britannia, England would never have existed.  
He wished Claudius could just have stayed away, then.  
The human, who looked frail and weak beside Rome, looked at the boy a moment longer before turning to his empire. He stuttered as he spoke, and as his Latin was still rusty anyway, England had a hard time understanding what he said. "...manners even worse than Gaul's..." he picked up. "Does he even speak Latin?... Raise him better... Even Egypt is... Teach him some manners." Rome just bowed his head slightly when the man finished speaking. "Of course, Caesar. My apologies." The emperor then turned and left, leaving Rome with his son.

The empire wasn't pleased as he looked down at the young boy. "See what you did there, Britannius?" he snapped. "You ruined it! I told you, you would meet the emperor. I asked you to behave yourself, didn't I? This is no way to treat your leader!"  
England flinched. "B-but I did not said something!" he said in broken Latin. "I nothing done wrong!"  
"He was right: you _don't_ even speak Latin," Rome sighed, gritting his teeth. "I've been teaching you for fourteen sunrises straight, and this is all you can manage? And on the matter of your lack of manners, boy: you _greet_ your emperor when you're in his presence. You _humbly greet him._ Though, hearing your Latin, I'm glad you didn't speak. But you could've at least bowed to him! Your manners aren't just worse than Gaul's, they're worse even than those of _Germania's_ spawn." He scoffed, looking at the trees not too far away. England, confused as he thought he'd done nothing wrong, took a step closer to him. How had he been supposed to know all that if no one had told him? "R-Rome, I-"  
Rome spun around again and hit the boy over the head, knocking him off his feet with the strength of it. "That's _Imperium Romanum_ for you, brat!" he yelled at him. "Good practice for your Latin! What am I to do with you, really?" He then roughly grabbed the boy by his hair, picking him up like that. England screamed in pain, thinking his skin would be torn off his skull like this. "Shut up, prick!" Rome yelled at him again, somehow silencing the boy. "It's high time I taught you some manners and discipline, kid."

England woke with a start, sitting up quickly, taking a few deep breaths as he realised he'd been dreaming again. He'd barely thought about Rome for decades, but the man appeared in his dreams more often for a few years now. Ever since Sealand had been born, nightmares like these had been very common for the older nation. At least this had been a mild one, he told himself. He'd gotten nowhere near death in this nightmare, so that was good. He wasn't quite sure if his dreams were anywhere near the truth, and he sometimes wondered whether his memories were better or worse than reality had been. He sighed, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. He knew what he was subconsciously trying to tell himself with these dreams, but he refused to believe it whenever he was awake. He was nothing like Rome. Was he? He _did_ take over a large part of the world once, colonising wherever he could. And he didn't always treat his colonies as well as they deserved. Maybe he was more like his father than he liked admitting, after all. But at least he was doing a better job with Sealand than Rome had done with him. Right?

He got up and quietly made his way to Sealand's room, opening the door carefully and peering inside. Sealand was still asleep, quite unlike the past week had been. The roles were reverted this night: usually it was the toddler waking up with nightmares these days, now the period of night terrors had set in. He remembered that time with Northern Ireland, Canada, America, Australia, Hong Kong... any colony he'd had. And it usually passed soon enough.  
He then closed the door behind him as he quickly slipped into the boy's room, quietly walking over to him and kneeling down beside his bed, looking at the boy as he slept peacefully. He _was_ doing a better job, he told himself, though there was more than enough room for improvement yet. Whenever Sealand would wake up screaming, England would be beside him in a heartbeat, trying to comfort him and get him back to sleep. And whenever England would wake from a dream like this one, he would always come here as well, watching the boy as he slept. He was so cute when he wasn't making any noise like this, such a sweet kid. England could almost forget what a troublemaker he was on moments like this. It helped calm himself down again, just being here. But this time he sighed, not feeling the effects of this technique quite as strongly as he'd have liked. Now that he was no longer plagued by memories and doubts, he was plagued by worry for Northern Ireland. He'd heard what had happened yesterday, but hadn't spoken Wales or the boy yet. He'd called, but neither had picked up the phone. Scotland and Ireland didn't know how either of them were doing, either, and England was worried every waking moment now. He doubted he could get back to sleep like this.

"If I have to come and comfort you every time you have a bad dream, Peter," he whispered under his breath as his son continued sleeping, oblivious to anything that had happened. "Can you return the favour for one night?" He sat down on the edge of the boy's bed, carefully picking him up. He was glad that the boy didn't wake as he lifted him, holding him gently. Now this worked miracles. Hearing the soft breathing of Sealand in the otherwise silent room calmed him completely, and he enjoyed the warmth of his small body in his arms. He couldn't imagine how he could've ever hated this child. Had he really hated him? Hadn't it just been fear and uncertainty? He closed his eyes, completely at ease right now, knowing that at least Sealand had a peaceful night, blissfully unaware of the horrors his family went through. After a moment, he just lay down on his back, Sealand still in his arms, not even close to waking up. The boy would sleep right through it all, he figured, and he could at least allow himself a peaceful night as well by staying here for once. "I love you, kid," he whispered, one arm around his son. His heart skipped a beat when Sealand mumbled something in his sleep, something that sounded eerily similar to 'papa'. That was the first time he'd ever said that, and England was beyond happy after this. Soon enough, he drifted off as well, Sealand still asleep on his chest. And for once, they both had a good night's sleep.

* * *

Wales was exhausted. He'd barely slept all night long, trying to figure out exactly what had happened in Belfast and looking after North. The boy had nearly slept through the night, well over twelve hours, at least. He'd woken up somewhere in the early morning, around five, and as Wales had been awake at that time, too, they'd gone downstairs again together, talking a bit and having breakfast an hour and a half later. Northern Ireland was having a shower now, trying to warm his sore muscles. Wales wasn't surprised when, just when he'd sat down, the doorbell rang. He muttered under his breath as he went to open it, knowing very well who he would find. Ireland looked just about ready to explode with worry, his blue eyes overflowing with said emotion. "Dylan!" he began the second he saw his younger brother. "D-Dylan, is Coineach alright? W-where is the lad? I hope he's okay... is he?" He took a sidewards step forward, wanting to walk right past Wales and go inside.  
"He's fine now," Wales answered flatly, blocking his way. "He's just taking a shower. And I'm alright, too, thanks for asking."

Ireland blinked and guiltily looked away. "R-right, sorry... C-can I come in now, Dylan? I want to see how the lad's doing myself."  
"No," the younger nation said without hesitation, looking his older brother straight in the eye as he spoke. "No, Cearul, you're not getting in. Just go." Ireland flinched at this, eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe Wales was telling him to leave now. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn't seem able to get the words over his lips. Wales just gritted his teeth as he glared at the older nation. Ireland couldn't just expect to come waltzing in here less than a day after the IRA had done this horrible thing. But he still tried. "Dylan, _please_," he begged. "You can't send me away now! You know how much Coineach means to me-"

"I do," Wales simply interrupted him, raising his voice a bit now. "And I don't care! Cearul, you could be his father, brother, cousin, grandfather and anything else one can come up with for all I care! You're _not _getting anywhere near him now!" But Ireland didn't give in this time. "Dylan, I had nothing to do with this!" he insisted. "I'm just as horrified as you are! Please, just let me see Coineach, let me talk to him, even if just for a minute! You can't keep him away from me, you know?"  
"Oh, but I can," Wales snapped, and just when Ireland tried to say something else, he punched his older brother hard in the face. His knuckles hurt after the impact, and he saw blood on them, the same blood that was trickling from inbetween Ireland's fingers as he pressed his hand to his nose and mouth now. Blood was pouring from both of them, though Wales could see he hadn't broken anything in his brother's face. The Irishman was stunned for a moment, unable to do anything but stare at his younger brother, but then he just tried once more, voice edged with anger now. But tears lay in his eyes now, and Wales knew very well just how much he was hurting his brother with this. But North had gone through enough pain already, and there was no way he'd let him get exposed to even more pain. There was no way he would let Ireland in. "Dylan, please, you can't-!"

"I can," Wales repeated, still glaring. "When I say 'get out', Cearul, I damn well mean it." Having said that, he slammed the door closed and quickly walked away, before he could hear his brother's voice once more and regret his decision.

* * *

Ireland was motionless for a moment after Wales slammed the door in his face, fingertips still resting on his split lips. He was stunned for a moment, unable to comprehend what had just happened. It was a simple request, wasn't it, to see for himself how North was doing after yesterday's Bloody Friday? Why had Wales blown up over it like that? And why, for God's sake, had he punched Ireland like he had? Ireland was much too shocked to get it just yet. Wales had gotten angry with him before, much worse than this, but this was the very first time he'd punched Ireland full-out like this.

Surely Wales didn't blame _him_ for what had happened? They all knew he had no ties with the IRA anymore, Official _or_ Provisional branch! No one could possibly think he had something to do with this, right? Because he hadn't. Not a thing.  
But then realisation hit him. He wasn't allowed to see Northern Ireland now. He wasn't even allowed to look at him for a single second, see for himself if he was alright. Wales had said he was fine, yes, but how could he be sure? He wanted -_needed_\- certainty now. Bloody Sunday earlier in January had been a terrible experience for the young nation, and Bloody Friday this short after it must have been even worse. There had been 26 bombings throughout a timeframe of roughly 90 minutes. All had been in Belfast -the poor boy must have felt like he was having a heartattack for well over an hour. Bloody Sunday had hurt him a lot, but that had been in Derry, which, in his body, was represented by a point in his abdomen rather than his heart. It had merely been an awful stomach ache, but this... this...

And he wasn't allowed near him. Wales would not allow him anywhere near his son. Was he completely out of his mind? For a moment, Ireland wanted to grab the key he had in his pocket -he'd rung the doorbell only because he thought it would be politer- go right in, tell Wales exactly what he thought of this and then go see North. But he knew better than to do so. Drawing the back of his hand over his still bleeding lips, he turned around silently, gripping his other hand into a tight fist. He would go, of course he would. There was no point in staying here now, if he couldn't even do the one thing he'd come for. But he also wouldn't be quick to forget this, he knew. And though he wished it were different, he also knew very well... he wouldn't be quick to forgive it, either.

* * *

**Bloody Sunday and Bloody Friday were two of the worst days of the Troubles: there weren't that many deaths compared to other conflicts, given, but the destruction was great.**

**Emperor Claudius, the fourth emperor of Rome, was the one to have conquered Britannia, which consisted of modern Wales, England and a part of Scotland. His health wasn't too great and he stuttered a lot, earning him the nickname 'C-c-c-claudius'. He was a great emperor, almost as good as Augustus, the very first one. He was certainly a lot better than his predecessor, Caligula, who was assassinated after merely four years on the throne.**

**As you can see, Latin is my favourite subject in school, with the tales of the first five emperors (Augustus to Nero) as my favourites!**

**Well, thanks for reading, and I can't make promises about the next chapter... except that it will be done this weekend at the latest :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Last day of freedom over here, though I just heard I have two days off again this week. Forget what I said about blessing vacation, bless the end of a schoolyear. There's always so many days off~**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review once again! Though this time, I must say I don't quite agree with one part of your critique: you're right about how Rome is portrayed here, but let's not forget we're seeing him through the eyes of a terrified toddler, and a grand nineteen centuries later at that. The memories are bound to have been twisted, and with little kids, it's usually the bad things that stand out. Otherwise you're right, though.**

**This chapter is just a little itty-bitty bit of a timeskip. But every major thing _is_ written down. A bit more historical than a few earlier chapters. Still, I hope you'll like it. I'm just hoping I got my history right!**

* * *

1972 turned out to be the worst year of the conflict so far, now that the IRA had finally pounced, as North himself called it. His brothers guessed that the emotional damage it did him was far greater than the physical, which also wasn't a laughing matter. He'd gotten a wound over the months of battle that turned into his first scar: a ragged, twisted cut on his right chest, near but not crossing the heart. It was nothing big, though on his still-small body it looked much worse than it was. He wasn't bothered by that thing, he said, but the rest clearly did. He'd gotten colder and more introverted, not laughing as much as he used to anymore and not stopping to play around with Sealand when the toddler asked for it, something he'd always loved to do. He hadn't talked with Ireland in months, refused to speak much with England even though he didn't avoid him, and he also didn't have as much contact with Scotland and Wales now. Everything childlike about him seemed to have vanished, and that worried his older brothers even more than it hurt them.

But Ireland, too, was going downhill. Where he once used to apologise for every single thing the IRA did, he now didn't care. In 1972, the IRA even bombed a city in the Netherlands, completely unrelated to the conflict between the two Irelands, and when the European nation called Ireland about this, he didn't even seem to care. "_Zeg, Ierland,_" the Netherlands had begun calmly, though the fact he spoke only Dutch betrayed how angry he was, "_zou je zo attent kunnen zijn, jouw organisaties te zeggen dat ze moeten optieven? Dankjewel."_  
Ireland had only sighed. "Translation, please?"  
"Tell your people to fuck the hell off!" Netherlands then yelled, clearly not a direct translation of what he'd said first at all. "I get that you're in a large conflict an' all, but bombing Roermond? What have _my_ people done to you, for Heaven's sake?" As the Dutchman continued ranting for a little while, confusing Ireland with his heavily accented English (he sometimes hardly noticed the man had switched back to Dutch), the older nation just remained silent, a bored expression on his face. When the other had finished, he just shrugged. "You know, Neddie-" Netherlands grumbled something at this. "-I have nothing to do with all that. Go bother somebody else." And then he just put the phone down and walked away from it, continuing with what he'd been doing.  
But these things weren't nearly what worried the UK the most. The worst thing to them was that Ireland seemed to try harder to pursue the same goals the IRA did, though not with the same methods: he wanted to get North away from the UK, and preferably under his control instead. This only drove Northern Ireland further away from him, obviously, but he didn't seem to care much about that, either. The scariest part was when he shrugged and told his brothers, "I'm not _asking_ Coineach to come with me, I'm going to _make sure_ he will, willingly or not. He is as Irish as I am: he belongs with _me_, not _you._"

At least England had the sense not to do any of the stupid things he'd done over the years prior. He was for once taking good care of himself, Sealand and the rest of the UK again, becoming a bit more like he used to be. Perhaps, Wales and Scotland both figured, that was the reason North wasn't avoiding him as much anymore: England was now more like he'd been before this conflict started, and less like the person he'd been for the four years the conflict had lasted now. The young nation probably trusted him more once again because of this.

Right now, halfway through 1973, the family was facing an obstacle that threatened to mess it all up again: the Sunningdale Agreement. In essence, it meant that Northern Ireland would remain part of the United Kingdom, but in his government would also be and Irish dimension, the 'Council of Ireland'. It was meant to please both parties in this conflict, letting Northern Ireland be under both British and Irish rule. Anyone with common sense could immediately see that this could never work, but they tried. Hopefully, sharing the power would make things between nationalists and loyalists a bit easier and less tense. And, was the family's hope, it could also serve to restore the relationship between Northern Ireland and Ireland.  
North didn't quite agree.

"I'm not going to Ireland!" he yelled when England brought it up. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm n-!" England quickly silenced him again with a stern look. North glared at his older brother, but kept his lips pressed shut as he listened to England. "Coineach, we're not making you go to Cearul at all," he told him calmly. "We're talking about _sharing_ the power, not handing it to him. At least consider it: think about your people."  
"My people won't appreciate it any more than I do," Northern Ireland muttered. "And what does Ireland think of it?"

"It's still _Cearul _to you, Coineach," England corrected him sharply. "There's no need for formalities, just call him by his name like you've always done." He then sighed, looking at a wall for a few heartbeats before adding softly, "I think Cearul thinks of this as the first step toward gaining full control. Don't worry, Coineach, I don't think this will last... he'll be himself again soon." North only blinked and didn't respond anymore. He didn't quite agree, but then told himself he shouldn't think the worst of his brother. _But you've given him so many chances._ Ireland always did his best to make him happy. _He's ruined every one of them so far._ He shouldn't blame him too much: he was stressed, too. _He's a selfish bastard who doesn't care about you._ He then shook his head in an attempt to drive those conflicted thoughts out, not wanting to think himself another terrible headache, like he'd been doing many times already. "One more," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "One more chance. That's all he gets." England smiled and ruffled his hair, only saying that he was glad about that, then remained silent once more. And so did North.

* * *

For a long while, it seemed like the Sunningdale Agreement was going to happen despite the opposition to it. But in the end, the British government decided not to go through with it. There was too much opposition, mostly from the loyalists and Protestants. The IRA was even more against it. Their goals were clear now, and they terrified Northern Ireland more than anything. He wondered sometimes if that was what Ireland wanted, too. He wanted a part of it, at least.  
The IRA's goal was to end Northern Ireland for good. They said only as a part of the United Kingdom, but where else would he go? If he joined up with Ireland, there would be a single united Ireland again. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised that such a union would mean his death. Either his or Ireland's. One of them would have to go on representing whatever was left of them, and the other would vanish. He didn't think the IRA was okay with the continued existence of Northern Ireland at all, not even as an independent state.  
What really caused the Sunningdale Agreement to be stopped, however, were the loyalists. To prevent the Agreement, they went on strike, cutting off electricity and water throughout nearly all of Northern Ireland. Nationalists were outraged at this, and especially when the British government called off the Agreement, as they claimed the government hadn't done enough to stop it. There were attacks because of this, on 17 May 1974. Four car bombs were detonated, killing 34 people and injuring roughly 300 more. This time, however, they were in Dublin and the northern city of Monaghan, still inside the Republic of Ireland. The attack didn't last nearly as long as Bloody Friday two years prior, but the damage it caused Ireland was at least as great as it did North with the 26 bombs. These were heavier, killed many more people and destroyed nearly as much.

No one in the United Kingdom really acted as if they cared. Scotland and Wales both asked if Ireland was alright, talked a bit with him, tried to speak of different subjects. But there was nothing to talk about anymore: Ireland felt awful, and the others didn't give two shits about it. At least, that's what the Irishman said. "And especially Arthur and Coineach, apparently," he added, voice hoarse with pain as he spoke, and neither Wales or Scotland could figure out which kind of pain it was. "They don't care. The two of you called, at least. Thanks." Scotland sighed then, more in pity than anything else, and tried to tell him that North and England _did_ care: the current situation just didn't allow them to show it much. Ireland just huffed, telling his brother what nonsense that was. "When Coineach got attacked, I was there," he said. "Every single attack, I was there as soon as I could, ready to help him if he needed me. Any bombs in England? I was _there._ This conflict involves me as much as it does the two of them, yet I'm ready to help when they need me." He sighed, his voice a lot softer when he spoke again. "But they're not here for me when I need them. They don't care at all, Allistair. I know my place in this family now..." He paused, gritting his teeth in anger and pain. "And you know what? I couldn't care less."

* * *

The IRA was becoming more splintered that before. It had already split into the Officials and the Provisionals years ago, with the Officials less keen to violence than the Provisionals, and where the former had a ceasefire since 1972, the latter just continued. In 1974, however, when the Officials' ceasefire became permanent, another group split from them, calling themselves the Irish National Liberation Army, and continued with the violence. The Official IRA then formed the Worker's Party, a more peaceful organisation that refused to resort to violence. The Provisional IRA continued on as they had, with bombings and shootings, spreading fear and destruction throughout Ireland and the UK. They no longer held Northern Ireland as their only target: instead, they attacked the rest of the UK more regularly as well, hoping to drive the British out of Northern Ireland. With a British withdrawl, their campaign would be a lot quicker and a lot easier. But it didn't work.

"Papa?" Sealand asked, looking at his father with worried blue eyes as the older nation clutched his stomach in pain. "You alright?" England, gritting his teeth, just nodded. "I'm fine, Peter," he reassured the boy, now with the physique of a four-year-old, once he caught his breath again. He smiled when Sealand still didn't look convinced, as a smile usually worked wonders to calm him again. He was thankfully still at the age where a smile made him think everything was okay. "I'm perfectly fine, Peter, really. Just a stomach ache, honestly." He knew much better, of course. Bombings, once again. This was the fourth attack in Great Britain in the past two years, the first having been in Aldershot. He didn't know exactly where this attack was taking place, only that it wasn't in London, and he was glad about that. The last major attack had been the one in the Republic of Ireland half a year ago. After that it had been relatively quiet for a while. England could only wonder how long this conflict would last yet: it had now lasted as long as WWII had, but it seemed like there wouldn't be an end to it anytime soon. At least this wasn't exactly a war, he told himself, not yet that is. This could be solved with much less casualties than that godawful war, even if it lasted for a hundred years yet -he wished it wouldn't.

He was just about trying to reassure himself that everything would be alright from now on, when the phone suddenly rang. Sealand jumped up and ran to get it, but England called him back, already going over there himself. "Hello?" he picked up, speaking flatly as he tried to hide the pain in his voice. It was beginning to subside already, anyway. It was a human that answered, a voice he recognised only as someone in the government, though he couldn't quite place who it was. "Good evening, sir," the human said. "Or, well, I wish it was. I'm just calling to inform you that a pub in Birmingham has been bombed minutes ago, at 20:17." England glanced at the clock: it was now 20:23. "Also, a warning has been given that there is another bomb planted as well at the Tavern in the Town. The only thing we know as of yet is that it was the IRA."  
"I could've told you that much," England muttered, then sighed and apologised. "But it's always the IRA these days," he went on. "Well, thank you for the information. Let's leave it at this -I think I'll have to prepare myself for the second bomb now, hm?"  
There was a hum of agreement on the other side of the line. "Yes, you do that, sir. We have some things to take care of here, too. Good luck, sir."

England just put the phone down again and sat back on his couch, bracing himself for the next attack. He knew it would hurt, but he knew he would have to keep a straight face in front of Sealand. He couldn't scare that boy again now, not when he was already worried. When the next bomb exploded, a mere four minutes later, his breath caught in his throat and he gritted his teeth. Sealand scrambled onto the couch and sat down beside him, holding his hand with both his own, tiny hands. "Stomach ache?" he asked quietly, and England nodded. "Yes, just a stomach ache," he choked out, muscles tense for a few seconds longer until the strongest pain faded. He then ruffled his son's hair and smiled at him. "See? I'm okay now." _If that was the last bomb, that is._ He then shook his head and pulled the boy onto his lap. "But wold you look at the time? It's bedtime for you, Peter," he said, getting to his feet with the boy still in his arms. Sealand didn't even protest: he'd been yawning and stifling yawns for half an hour already, but England had been too busy to send him to bed yet. And in the middle of that, the bombs had come. "You will be okay?" the boy asked sleepily, resting his head against England's shoulder. The older nation felt a pang of anger as he carried the boy up the stairs. He wasn't even seven years old yet, a four-year-old physically, and here he was, worrying about England. That wasn't normal, nor healthy. _You'll pay for worrying my son like this, Cearul,_ he muttered in silence, then shook his head to clear those thoughts away. It was the Irish Republican Army doing this, not the Irish Republic himself. Ireland had his own son to worry about, if you had to ask the Irishman himself. England honestly didn't care anymore _what_ he was, North had made his decision, anyway: Ireland was his brother, and he should start acting like that again. If he did, maybe the young nation would forgive him one day. But as he was acting right now, North would never find it in his heart to forgive him for the lies.

He reached the top of the stairs then, and forced himself to focus on getting Sealand to bed rather than the troubles the family was experiencing. He put the boy down and watched him walk straight to his room. "Peter," he called him back softly. "What do we do before going to bed?" Sealand looked over his shoulder at England, blinking once before answering, "We get undressed?"  
England shook his head and pointed to the bathroom door. "Go brush your teeth first, son. _Then _you may go to bed." Sealand sighed, having hoped he could skip this task for one evening, then went to the bathroom. He shoved the small crate England had there for him in front of the sink, climbing on top of it so he could just reach the sink and the mirror. England stood watching as the boy brushed his teeth, making sure he did so properly. Then he picked up the boy again and carried him to bed. As the boy was taking off his clothes and slipped into his pyjamas, England just stood staring at a wall, lost in thoughts again. What was he supposed to do about this situation? What could he do? It seemed like the IRA would never give up sometimes. The British wouldn't, either. But they had to come to some agreement soon, Sunningdale or not, or things would really get even more out of hand. Perhaps they could give Sunningdale another try... No. No, that plan wouldn't work, he knew. It had caused such great reactions amongst the Northern Irish people, he didn't even want to try again. Then what else could he do? He had to think of something, for the sake of his people and his little brother and-

"Papa?" Sealand's voice came again, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm done." England just turned to him with a smile and the boy crawled into bed. "Good boy," he said, kneeling down beside him and ruffling his hair a bit again. It was getting darker, he noted. He had been very pale blond when he was younger, but he was almost the same shade of blond England was, and it would get even darker yet. Maybe he'd have the same shade Wales had, a very dark blond, close to a lighter brown shade. He then gave the kid a light kiss on his cheek and wished him goodnight, just about ready to go downstairs again, but Sealand had other plans. "Can you tell me another story?" he asked, looking up at his father with big blue eyes.  
"It's late, Peter," he sighed, shaking his head. "You have to go to sleep, and I have work to do."  
"Pleeeaaase?"

England then gave in, sitting down on the side of his bed. "What kind of story do you want, then?" Sealand didn't have to think long. "Your pirate stories!" he squeaked, blue eyes shining. England smiled. Maybe it was because he was a maritime micro-nation, but he always liked the pirate stories best. He quickly thought of one, one of him travelling the world to 'trade' with other nations (he'd had a habit of trading with one nation and stealing from others on the way back home), and as he was telling the story, wondered how many parents told stories like this that were actually true. He guessed a lot of fathers pretended to have been knights or pirates in the stories they told their kids, but in England's case, it was all actually true. Maybe that was what Sealand liked about the stories as well: they were always so realistic, for obvious reasons. England laughed softly when the young boy let out a huge yawn in the middle of the story. "And you'll hear what happened next another time," he said, giving the boy a soft kiss goodnight and leaving then. He had a lot of work left to do.  
He _had _to think of something to fix this situation once and for all. Northern Ireland needed him in this.

There finally seemed to be some light in the situation a month later when, for the very first time, both sides agreed to a ceasefire, one that would last throughout 1975, at least.

* * *

**I personally still don't get why a Dutch city was bombed, so I figured I could add that. That was an attack that just didn't make sense, and it also shows how the IRA wasn't just targeting Northern Ireland anymore.**

**As for the translation, which has only partially been given: "Say, Ireland, would you be so kind as to tell your organisations to fuck the hell off?"**

**And on the matter of the ceasefire... it's the PIRA (Provisional IRA) we're talking about. You probably know what to expect.**

**Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Well, I don't have much to say now.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! And don't worry, your critique _does_ help a lot, as I was considering maybe writing a Roman-history fic sometime as well! And I will definitely show his other side there, if I do!**

**Hmmm... I tried to make this chapter just a little less sad. I mean, months pass per chapter these days (sorry!) and things change in those months...**

**Anyway, I hope you'll like it!**

* * *

On New Year's Eve 1974, the family got back together again for the first time in months. They were somewhere outside, a little while away from the large parties humans held. They had no reason nor will to party, though they had all agreed there would be no fights that night, only re-bonding. It was for this reason that Northern Ireland had decided to sit next to Ireland at the campfire they'd made, trying his best to relax and not think about the fight between him and the older Irishman. There was a ceasefire now, after all, and that left time and space for him and Ireland to rebuild their relationship once more. So far they hadn't talked much, but the things they had said to each other had been free of spite and anger.

Ireland was staring at England now, who sat on his other side, and gave a soft tug on the silver ring in his left ear. "Ah! Cearul, stop that!" the Englishman then exclaimed, pushing him away. Ireland just shrugged. "I hardly touched it, lad," he said, smirking. "Or is your ear just that sensitive?"  
"First of all, you didn't _hardly_ touch it," England corrected him with a huff. "Second, I haven't had metal in my ears for 400 years, give or take. Let me get used to it again before you start tugging on it, thank you very much." Scotland just grinned at the scene, keeping quiet since Sealand was asleep on his lap, but Wales sighed and shook his head in mock-disapproval. "Artie," he said, "please let this be the only thing and the _last _thing you shoot through your skin. We all thought you'd stopped with the whole punk thing!"

England just raised an eyebrow at him and sighed. "Well, that only goes to show how little contact we've had over the past years. Less frequent, yes, but I'm still part of that culture." He then shrugged and looked at the fire, pulling the blanket he had over his shoulders a little closer. They had all taken one or two blankets with them and were wearing at least two layers as they sat beside the fire. Midnight and mid-winter didn't exactly mix well, but they really hadn't wanted to be stuck inside some house or city. They didn't, however, hunt for their food that day like they had done on earlier trips like these. Instead they had simply taken some sandwiches and soup with them, the latter only lukewarm when they started on that.  
Northern Ireland shivered when a breeze passed, and he decided to take that oppertunity to see how Ireland would react if he got any closer. So carefully, he pressed close to the older nation, enjoying the warmth and grateful for the fact Ireland did not move an inch. And, somewhere beneath all that, almost hurt that he didn't react at all. Had he given up on North so easily? The boy pushed those thoughts away and looked at England, instead focusing on his older brother's silver earring, which seemed to be the topic of conversation now. "I like it," he simply commented, nodding to the little object. And he wasn't lying when he said that: he still disliked change, so England's transition to a punk had been something he hadn't liked at all, but he was getting used to his new quirks and appearance. And this piercing _did_ look cool on him. He wore it 24 hours a day, as the hole would close within seconds otherwise, and the government hadn't been pleased when he'd showed up at a meeting with that in his ear. But even with the neat, formal attire he wore there and the gentlemanly air he still had on such occassions, that single accesory gave him a hint of the rebeliousness North was getting used to as well.

England just smiled at that compliment, glad that at least someone liked it as much as he did. Then he turned back to Ireland, who still looked a bit doubtful. "You shouldn't be so surprised, you know," he told him calmly. "It's not the first time I've gone against the rules."  
Ireland laughed at that, and North smiled as well. He was glad to hear his brothers having fun together, and he decided he should allow himself some fun as well. The way he'd been the past two years hadn't been healthy, and he wanted to change that again starting the next. Starting in a few minutes from now, he realised, getting a little excited as he did every year. "I know it's not, laddie," Ireland said when he fell silent again. "I know we like to say Peter is a born troublemaker, but fact is, he just really takes after his father."  
"Gods, don't get me started on the things he's done," Wales sighed opposite of them, staring at his younger brother with a warm smile and eyes twinkling with joy at his memories. "When he was just about your age, Coineach," he told the boy, "he ran away from the castle we lived in -we used to live with our monarchs during the middle ages- and disappeared for a decade. When he returned, he had the appearance of a sixteen-year-old, an emerald in his ear, a ponytail in his hair -a messy one, though- and plenty of scars to tell stories about. Look who'd gone pirating for ten years after getting sick of following the rules."

Northern Ireland smiled at this. What a shame he'd been born when that age had long passed. He'd have loved to join his older brother as a pirate and do all the things they used to do. But he was also looking forward to the time when he'd be able to teach them things: he already understood more about technology than they did, after all. The advantages of being younger, he supposed. He yawned then, and glanced at his watch briefly. Ten minutes until the new year. He leaned in closer to Ireland without even realising it, and this time the older nation reacted to it, though it was a reaction North had not expected at all. "What do you want, Coineach?" Ireland demanded, sounding confused more than angry or annoyed, though those emotions were audible in his voice as well. Northern Ireland just flinched, shoving away from him again. Ireland seemed just as shocked at his reaction as the boy was, though he did not try to correct himself. When Northern Ireland did not answer, he sighed and asked again, calmer and softer this time, "Coineach, honestly, what do you want?" The others were just silent at this point, carefully watching the scene unfold, though they looked ready to interfere when they had to. "You may hate me and never want to see me again," Ireland went on, looking North straight in the eyes. "You may think of me as a brother and treat me as such. You may decide you want me as your father and choose for that. But Coineach... don't linger somewhere inbetween the three." North bit his lip as Ireland went on, knowing the older nation was right in what he said. "You can't expect to hate me and not want me to be anywhere near you one day, then curl up next to me the next. It doesn't work like that. It's too confusing for us both." He fell silent for a moment, and he voice was barely more than a whisper when he said once again, "So, Coineach... what do you want?"

"I don't know," North choked out, closing his eyes and curling up under his blanket, suddenly feeling even colder than he already had. "I really don't know. B-but I'm sorry." Was this because of him? Had he caused this? They had promised there would be no fights, and there wasn't one yet, but it couldn't be far off if he didn't make this right soon. He refused to go into the new year fighting his brother. Just the thought of it made him sick to the stomach, and he curled up further. "I just really, honestly don't know, Cearul..." Suddenly he heard rustling beside him, and Ireland got closer to him now, putting an arm around him, and North realised this had been exactly what he'd wanted when he'd pressed against his older brother. It hadn't just been for the warmth. "I don't know, either, Coineach," Ireland said softly. "And I couldn't answer the question for you if I did. That's something you must do on your own. If you want to see this as a hug, then go ahead. If you'd rather think of this as a way to stay warm, then so be it. I don't mind, Coineach, as long as you know what you want." At that moment, North just sighed and leaned against him again. He didn't know, but for now he was fine with not knowing. So long as he didn't start the new year with a fight.

"Well, now that that's settled," Scotland sighed eventually, glancing at his own watch but holding it out for Wales to read instead after staring at it for half a minute straight. He couldn't read the damn thing if it was this dark. "Shall I wake up this wee lad, or shall I let him sleep?" he then asked England, gesturing to the sleeping Sealand. England thought for a moment, and while he did, Wales mumbled softly that it was three minutes until midnight. "We _did_ promise we'd wake him for the fireworks," Scotland urged his little brother on. They were a while away from the nearest city, yes, but near enough to still see some of the fireworks that would be lit. Sealand had been begging them to watch it together for the past week, and it wouldn't be fair now not to wake him. England saw this, too, and nodded. "Fine, let's just wake him. But be gentle about it: he can be a bit snappy sometimes, and I really don't want that right now."  
"Again, he simply takes after his father," Ireland commented flatly, and England just rolled his eyes at this.

Sealand complained for only a moment when Scotland gently shook him awake, then thanked him when he realised why the older nation had done so. Northern Ireland watched him with envy once again. The young boy knew nothing of the battles his family fought, nothing of the pain and fear and uncertainty his father and uncles were going through, of the tension that scorched the air with a flame as hot as the ones they now sat gathered around. He was oblivious to everything Northern Ireland wanted to get away from. It was unfair. He watched as Sealand danced around Scotland and Wales for a bit, then ran around the fire, scrambled over North and Ireland only to bounce over to England in sheer excitement, jumping onto his father's lap none too carefully. It knocked the breath out of England when the boy crashed against his chest, but he just smiled, and North watched him smile. And then he just couldn't watch anymore.

He then heard some crackling in the air, and knew the fireworks had started a little while away from them. But he didn't look up to watch them over the treetops with the others. Instead, he closed his eyes and made a vow to himself.  
_I will make this a better year. Whether my people will or not, __**I**__ will make this a better year for myself. No more self-pitying, no more fighting my brothers. This will be a better year._  
He realised then, that it was officially 1975. He'd lived to see three-quarters of this century pass, even though he'd missed most of the first quarter. There were only 25 years left of the 20th century now.  
And he worried he would never get to see the end of it.

* * *

The next morning after they'd slept a bit, the six nations were having a quick breakfast before they would go home again. Despite being the middle of winter, Northern Ireland had been warmer than he would have ever thought last night, sleeping out in the open. The family had slept close together for warmth, and it had worked splendidly. Sealand had gotten an especially warm spot, inbetween England and Wales, pressed closely to his father. North had slept on England's other side, between him and Scotland, with Ireland beside the Scot. If anything was a good way to start a year of re-bonding, North figured, it had to be sleeping like that. Right now they were talking as they ate, after Scotland had asked what the plans for this new year were for everyone. "We'll try to find a way to make this ceasefire permanent," England declared. He then looked at Sealand, who was seated on North's lap for now. "And I'm also still working on my relationship with Peter. So I guess I'll have work for the entire year on just those things."  
"I honestly have no idea what I'll do," Wales said, shrugging, looking at North. The boy didn't hesitate before declaring he would join England. "I want to end this conflict as soon as I can, and with the ceasefire now, that shouldn't be much of a problem." He glanced at Ireland then, and added, "and I also want to see if things between us can get any better again." Ireland just smiled warmly at him, clearly grateful for that.  
"Well, if I find the time," Scotland said, stretching his back and shoulders for a moment, "this year, I'm going to find Nessie." Wales just smirked at him, amused, and Sealand looked at his uncle wide-eyed as he asked, "Who's Nessie? Is she a friend?" Scotland just nodded and told him she was a very good friend of his, though he left the part about her being a mythical lake-monster out of it.

The family then stared at Ireland, waiting for him to reveal his plans as well. He shifted uncomfortably and took a deep, shuddering breath before speaking softly. "Before you condemn me for this," he began hesitantly, "please understand that I have a very good reason for doing this. And it's all in your interests as well as mine."  
"Well?" Scotland urged him on, looking at him through narrowed eyes. He, like the others, didn't like where this was going. Neither did Ireland himself, apparently.  
"I'm going to join the IRA."

"You're _what_?" England exclaimed, shocked and angry. At the same time, North quickly shoved well away from the older nation, glaring at him in pure rage and disbelief. He couldn't be serious about that! But Ireland defended himself quickly. "We need to know what they're up to!" he said, trying to convince them he was doing this for them, knowing it would be a hard task. "If we want any chance to stop all this, we need to know their plans well before they carry them out!"

"There's a ceasefire, Cearul!" England protested. "There are no plans to uncover: there's peace for now!"  
"I never imagined you could be so naive!" Ireland shot back, staring at his little brother in surprise. "There's an _official_ ceasefire, but this is the _Provisional_ IRA we're talking about! They split from the Officials _especially_ because they believed peaceful negotiations weren't the answer. And how long will a ceasefire last, do you think? Arthur, we _need_ to know what they're planning next, and we can't get inside information unless we have someone on the inside. And who else should it be? We can't trust humans to do it for us. And I don't see them accepting Brits anytime soon."

"Can we trust _you_?" North demanded icily. "How can I be sure you won't be bombing me, attacking my citizens like they do?" Ireland didn't answer to this, only looked away silently, and this sparked even more anger in Northern Ireland. "You could kill me with that!"  
"I won't do it, Coineach!" Ireland then protested, looking the boy in the eyes again. "I won't attack you, I swear. I-if I do..." He shook his head and sighed. "Coineach, I can't promise I won't do anything," he then said. "If I don't join any of the attacks, it'll be suspicious. But I swear, Coineach, that I will not join anything major. It won't leave you hurt too badly, I promise you. And if I break that promise..." He trailed off, almost as if he was deciding not to go through with his own plans after all, but he took a deep breath then, and just finished his words. "If I break that promise, you may kill me."

"No way," Scotland choked out, bewildered, staring at his older brother wide-eyed. "Old Man, if ye think we'll kill ye for anythin'-!"  
"You won't have to," Ireland interrupted him quickly, answering his younger brother's stare. "Allistair, I won't break my promise. You won't have to do anything, I swear. It's just... to be on the safe side. And to show you all how serious I am about this." His gaze then shifted to Wales, who was just beginning to say something, too.  
"Cearul, it's dangerous," the younger nation said, mossy eyes shimmering with fear. "As long as there's the ceasefire, we won't have to do anything like that. It will last at least the entire year, remember? Please don't be stupid..." They held each other's gaze for a moment, and when Ireland looked at North next, he sighed and gave in.  
"Fine," he mumbled, looking at the trees rather than any of his brothers. "I won't -for now. Not until you give me permission to." He paused for a moment, looking at England instead. North wondered for a moment what he meant -_'until you give me permission'_. Why would they ever? The young nation's initial shock and anger had faded by now, and instead he shared his older brothers' fear and worry. If Ireland would really join the IRA as a... a _spy_ for them, and if the humans found out about it... The only thing humans weren't capable of was to kill a nation. But they could do a whole lot of damage otherwise, most of it not even physical per se. But Ireland must have realised this already, North then decided. He must already be aware of the consequences -why else would he have told them it was okay to kill him if he-?

North paled at this thought, realisation slowly seeping into his mind like the dew dripping from the ferns close by. The reason Ireland must have said it would be okay to kill him if he betrayed them, was not only to ensure he would never betray his family again: it was also so the humans wouldn't get to him first. Northern Ireland then looked to his side where England said, and saw the same fear and doubts in his eyes that North himself felt. Still, he nodded after a moment of hesitation. "You know what, Cearul?" he said, each word filling North with dread. He wasn't seriously considering this, was he? "It's a stupid but brilliant idea. We _do _need someone on the inside -it could help us a lot. But-" He narrowed his eyes now, and his gaze was more commanding than North had ever seen it before. "-you will _not_ join the IRA until something happens. As long as there's the ceasefire and they uphold it, you _won't_ do this. Do you understand?"  
Until he gave his permission. Now he got it. Northern Ireland was against it fully, and looking at Scotland and Wales, he knew they were, too, although neither of them tried to talk their older and younger brothers out of it anymore now. But Ireland must have known that England would let him once the battle would start again. Whether it would be out of anger, hatred or actual trust in his older brother, it didn't matter. Either Ireland would be useful to the family again, or he'd die trying. It was like some silent contract underneath this agreement: the only way for Ireland to truly regain his place in the family as a trusted member.

But Northern Ireland still didn't agree with it. Looking at Ireland now, he saw exactly the same thing he'd seen for a long time already: someone he just really didn't like, but someone he also cared about more than words could ever describe. He knew he would never hate him, doubted that he would ever be able to love him again like he used to as a little kid. But he couldn't stand the thought of him doing something quite so dangerous. "You're not going," he told his oldest brother determinedly. "You're not. It's stupid and crazy and dangerous and-"  
"And important, Coineach," Ireland interrupted him softly. "You know it is."  
But Northern Ireland shook his head. "It's not! We can do without someone on the inside -like we have all these years already!" He stared at Ireland for a moment, but when he saw the warmth in his blue eyes and the tiny smile on his lips, he just looked down instead. How could he smile now?

"You're worried," Ireland concluded, voice hardly more than a whisper. North bit the inside of his lip, refusing to look up now, his shoulders pulled up high. "But Coineach, I'll be fine. What's the worst that can happen, honestly? One of us getting hurt? No one will die. You know that, don't you?" Still North didn't look up. But he did let out the breath he had been holding, answering hoarsely, "If we're going to work on becoming brothers again this year, Cearul." He paused for just a heartbeat. "And I mean _actual_ brothers, like we used to be... I don't want to risk losing you again after that, one way or the other."  
"You won't," Ireland tried to reassure him. "I swear you won't. Do you trust me, Coineach?" he asked, holding out his hand to the young nation. Northern Ireland hesitated. Did he? He wasn't so sure. Yes, he trusted Ireland would be alright, that he wouldn't die or worse. But he didn't trust Ireland when he said he wouldn't do anything to hurt North. Memories of the old nation claiming he would do anything to get North to join him still lay too fresh in his mind, and for a moment, he wanted to turn and flee, run far away from all this. But he told himself that this wouldn't do anything to help him feel better, and definitely not to better his relationship with his oldest brother again. He would have to trust him. And he silently grabbed Ireland's hand, the motion saying more than words would have.

* * *

**Well, at least they're trying, right?**

**Now I'd like to hear one thing from my readers, actually... do _you_ trust Ireland at this point?**

**Anyway, thanks a lot for reading! I hope you liked the chapter a bit, and please leave a review!**


	27. Chapter 27

**I'm sorry. This chapter took over a week and it is _short_. Well, I already kinda figured this story wouldn't be finished before summer, and I thought it would be at first. But whatever, really.**

**But I'm having a bit of trouble (no pun intended) with these chapters... but I have a lot of drama planned not too long from now. And with that, I'm sure the chapters will come both faster and longer again! And better. So keep hanging in there, the quality of this story _will_ be back.**

**(And besides that, I only have 19 more days of school (weekends and free day tomorrow not included) so I will write more frequently then, too!)**

**Crossfire, I can only keep thanking you for the amazing reviews every time. Thank you so so much.**

**And without further ado...**

* * *

Ireland's heart pounded painfully in his chest all day. The IRA had attacked again early in 1975, and now he had to join them. He wouldn't go back on his promise. "It won't be easy at first to give you information," he told his brothers as he called an emergency family meeting. "I wouldn't put it past them to track their members. I cannot tell you anything over the telephone at least, I'm sure."  
"You can still call if off," Wales suggested, looking at his older brother in worry. He still didn't want him to do this. "They will be suspicious of you the moment you tell them who you are. Signing up as 'Cearul' isn't going to work -you need a surname. And preferably an alias... and then some official documents with that name on it."  
"Well, I _am_ the government, amongst other things," Ireland sighed, shrugging. "Surely a new passport won't be hard to come by."

"And what about your age?" England then said. "You need a birthdate as well, obviously." Ireland just nodded as his brothers kept throwing everything he needed for this at him.  
"Parents."  
"Maybe siblings?"  
"A _normal_ past."

"I honestly don't need _all_ of that," Ireland then muttered, though he wasn't so confident anymore now. He then thought for a moment, and decided quickly. "Alright, new name: Cian Sullivan. Acceptable?" The UK members nodded, and Scotland even managed a smile. "What's your thing with names starting with 'c', Old Man?" he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice. Ireland just shrugged again. "I like them," was his simple explanation. "But how about Killian, then? Killian Sullivan?"  
"Still with the 'k' sound."  
"Whatever, honestly. I'll use that as my name, then -Cian, I mean." England just blinked at his older brother, wondering out loud, "Why not use a name that's used in _English_ as well?" Ireland just gave him a blank stare that answered it well enough: _because I don't want to._ Then the next matter came: his heritage. "How about an orphan?" Ireland suggested. "Saves us a lot of thinking and working to make it believable -they'll look it up, I assure you. Parents unknown. Raised in..." He paused for a moment, then finished, "Tralee. As for my age: 29. That would mean I was born in... 1956, March 10 or something." Scotland hummed at this, pity in his voice that only served to confuse his older brother. "You're getting old, Cearul," he just explained. "You'll be thirty in a few weeks' time." Ireland just rolled his eyes, while North asked the Scot if they could please stay serious about something so important.  
"Do you have any family?" Wales asked, getting back to the important topics. Ireland just shook his head. "Was married," he thought up quickly, "but she was killed in the Dublin-Monaghan bombings. No children."  
"A motive," England concluded after this, a tiny smirk on his lips. "You just want to get revenge on those godawful loyalists up in Ulster, hm? I like it."

This discussion went on a bit longer, and they wrote everything down until they had an entire identity worked out for their oldest brother. "Well then," Ireland said eventually, looking over the notes they had made together. "I'll work on getting a passport and all such things under this name, and when I have it... the real work begins." He looked at his little brothers in turns then, before he sighed. "If you don't hear anything from me for a month once I've gone to them," he mumbled, averting his gaze when he started speaking, "_then_ you may start to worry, but not before, understood? I will let you know when that month begins." England just nodded, Scotland didn't react at all, but Wales immediately swung his arms around his brother and held him. "Just be careful," he said hoarsely, voice a whisper but just loud enough for the others to be heard. At this, for the first time that day something like fear lay visible in the older nation's blue eyes, but he hid it well otherwise when he patted his little brother on the back and reassured him once again that everything would turn out fine.

And once again Northern Ireland had his doubts. He only knew one thing for sure, and that was that the family had gone through too much together to be torn apart over something like this. However it would end, North refused to let this conflict, this _war_ end with a permanent rift between the family members, or the funeral of one of the five brothers. They would all make it, and they would rebuild their bond and make it stronger than it had ever been once all this was over with. He knew the destination they were headed for, but the road split from this point on, and all five paths they would take were shrouded by fog, making it impossible to tell what lay on them or how long they would be.  
But he just knew with all his heart that even more obstacles and hardships were waiting for them. And they would have to face each and every one before this whole mess would end. And this would be the first.

* * *

A month after that, things were as peaceful as they'd ever been -the occassional incidents causing frustration and discomfort amongst the brothers, everyone doing their jobs and trying to work out a way to deal with the situation. Ireland's government, once they had given him the chance to properly explain his plans, had given its consent to let him join the IRA. The organisation had accepted him as a new member, and so far, he hadn't seen any signs of them recognising him or being suspicious in any way. He'd been very careful at first, but he soon felt it was safe enough to contact his family again, which he did as often as his new, busier schedule allowed. His government had decided that, to make working for the IRA as well a bit easier, they would give him as little of a nation's usual work as they could afford, but it was still a lot.

England had made his own life a whole lot easier now that Sealand had the age to be send to school, which the older nation took advantage of all too gladly and the young boy himself thoroughly enjoyed. Now he could focus on his work during most of the day, spend time with Sealand later in the afternoon and evenings before the boy went to bed, then work again or take some time for himself. Somehow he got almost twice the amount of work done each day than he had over the past years. It put him in a much brighter mood on most days, which came as a huge relief to the other members of the United Kingdom.

As for Northern Ireland, forcing himself to cheer up seemed to actually work out for him. He was happier again despite everything that was still going on, more willing to spend time with his older brothers and be with them again. He tried his hardest not to worry too much, and spent more time on his hobbies again whenever he needed distraction. And from then on, he was convinced that, if he ever was unable to find any light in his situation, he would be able to create his own. He would somehow make himself happy again every time, knowing now that he could.  
He got a nice distraction when America and Canada came over for two weeks not too long after, not having to think about his own issues for a moment. America wasn't helping too much on occassion, though, complaining about the Cold War going on between him and the Soviet Union. But he was done quickly when Northern Ireland just looked at him, not impressed after a rant from the older nation about his situation, then asked him casually how many bombs were detonated in his capital each year. From that moment on, America got the hint, and said not a word about that subject anymore.

"I still cannot get over the fact that you've grown this much, Coineach," Canada sighed one of the first days the twins were with him, England and Sealand in London. Wales and Scotland would both come over to see them as well this week, and if he got the chance, so would Ireland. But for now it was the five of them, which was plenty. Northern Ireland didn't look up at this comment -he looked down instead. Canada was sitting on a chair at the table as North walked past, and though the North American was taller now than England was, much to the older nation's dismay, he only reached North's shoulders when he was sitting and the young nation was standing. North just smirked as the Canadian sighed. "The first time we met, you reached about as high as my abdomen. Then the last time, you came to my stomach and now... dammit, you're nearly at my shoulder!"

Northern Ireland was just about to say something to this when he spotted America walking into the room, grinning wide, so he and Canada just turned to him instead. "Ya'll never guess what Artie's doing!" he said in a hushed voice, amusement dripping from every word of it. North wondered what he could mean for just a second, then realised what it was. Yes, he'd been surprised the first time he witnessed it, too, but not so much anymore now. Canada, however, had no idea, and eagerly asked his older twin what was so great. "Well, he's cleaning up upstairs, right?" America began, the grin still on his face and his eyes shining. "I just walked past the room he's working in when I went downstairs, and I don't think he's noticed me, otherwise he would've stopped for sure, but -but he's singing!" Canada gaped at this, eyes wide, and America barked out a laugh. "I know, right? Old Dude's actually singing, and not even the boring old stuff he used to play on that boring old violin back in the day! To be honest," he added more softly, shuddering for just a heartbeat, "I think it was the Sex Pistols."

"Papa sings a lot when it's just him and me," Sealand then commented from where he sat beside Canada. His eyes were shining as much as America's, though for other reasons. "I like it when he does that. It means he's happy." When the young micronation said this, Canada just smiled warmly, and so did North. America, however, just laughed again.  
"That old geezer, happy?" he choked out. "When I'm here, you mean? Impossible!" North smirked, pressing his lips together to not laugh as well, but Sealand didn't get the joke. "It _does_ mean he's happy!" the boy protested. "It really does! And stop making fun of my papa!"  
Canada patted him on the back softly, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "We're not, Peter, really," he reassured the boy quickly, trying to make him relax again. "We're just... pleasantly surprised, that's all. He never did anything of the sort when he raised us."

"Pity," North commented on that. "He's really good at it, you know. I sometimes do wonder how his voice would go together with older music, calmer than this. But with the style he has now, I don't think I'll ever hear it." Then there were footsteps down the stairs, and he quickly told the twin nations, "Now don't mention a thing! If he knows we know, he might just stop for good, and that would be a shame." So they all shut up about it when England walked into the room, the older nation just giving them all a confused look as they stared at him, lips pressed together to not say anything. "Now what is- oh, never mind," he mumbled, shrugging and walking away again. But before he went to the livingroom, he just turned around again and asked very seriously, "Coineach, has Cearul called yet?"

North shook his head, suddenly realising Ireland should be calling to give them an update on the IRA's plans today. He wondered how his oldest brother was doing now, as it had been some time since he'd last heard from him. Only months ago, he thought to himself then, he would've loved having no contact with Ireland for this long. Now, however, he wanted to hear from him at least once a week, just to know he was alright. And if he could learn about some of his enemies' plans through him, that was all the better. So far he hadn't given much useful information yet, but that would come once the humans trusted him better for sure. He hoped they soon would: that would make the whole affair feel better for Ireland himself, too, as he was very uncomfortable working with the enemies of his family. Well, at least things within the family were looking up, North kept telling himself, a tiny smile forming on his lips. At least they all trusted each other again.

* * *

"You should really get that ankle looked at, Sullivan," one of the other new members of the IRA said as he and Ireland left again after some training. They didn't train often, but they had to practice using firearms and how to safely plant bombs according to the higher-ups. Ireland simply acted as if he'd never touched a gun before. This afternoon, though, as they were busy, Ireland's foot had gotten stuck in something, causing him to trip and fall, with his foot still stuck in whatever it had been. He'd twisted his ankle pretty badly, and it had in fact been broken, though 'twisted' was what he told others. He couldn't have them checking his ankle, seeing broken bones heal themselves graduadly. Way to blow a cover. So once more, he just shook his head. "No, really, I'm fine," he lied, still limping in pain. The bones must've healed by now, but they were still a bit weak and extremely sore. "It's just sprained. Tomorrow it should be fine again: it's feeling a lot better already." Well, at least that wasn't a lie. Despite years and years of practice, he still wasn't the best liar the world has seen. But a bit of twisted truth was no problem.

"Why did you join, anyway?" the nation then asked the human, hoping to distract him with a different topic. "You don't seem to want to learn how to handle weapons."  
The human shrugged. "Same as everyone, really. I want to reunite Ireland, make it like it was in the old days." Ireland just blinked. This human hadn't been born when Ireland was partitioned, but he was talking about the old days like he'd been there and longed to go back. He didn't understand humans like that. "Irish, Northern Irish... what's the difference? We're all the same, with the same roots and the same ancestors. We belong together again. But you're right," the human added, "I don't like the idea of fighting or killing. But even I can see that the Brits will not have the sense to let the Northern Irish go otherwise. They're violent people, and more violence is the only answer to that, unfortunately."  
It's not. Ireland wished he could tell these people that more violence was exactly what caused these problems. Yes, a voting among the Northern Irish about which side they would want to pick was a long way away, but not impossible. Ireland was sure that, if North really wanted that, he could convince his older brothers, who in turn would convince the government. And one day it would happen. But not if this went on like it did.

But for now he just had to get home. He still had to call his family to give them an update. Not that there was anything to tell: the IRA was brainwashing people to learn all about guns and bombs and killing, and to enjoy it as they did. And though he knew they were planning something, he had no idea yet what. He could only really hope he would get some actual information soon, for what little he had to offer now was not worth the risk of being here.

_Just let all of it be over soon._

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and I hope the chapter was nice despite the size! Or the lack of it, actually.**

**And have faith, as I said. It'll get better again soon.**


	28. Chapter 28

**Now I know I should stop apologising, but I'm still sorry that this chapter took me so long. There's a lot going on in my family right now, and even more in school. 12 days of lessons left, and almost as many tests -_-' But I've found the right pace of work, so I can combine it with writing (don't get me wrong -I _need_ to write for my own sake, if I didn't I'd go crazy!) But in three weeks' time, I'll have to go camping with school as well (no, not for fun -for bloody _Physics assignments!_ I dropped physics when I had the chance, and it's still being forced on me... I suck at it.)**

**Anyway, I'm just busy. So I don't have much time or motivation right now to study the history of the Troubles, and without studying that, I have no proper material to base my chapters on. It's very simple, really. I'll be back. Just give me some time...**

**Crossfire, once again, thanks for the review! And Silver-'-Doe290s, thanks for the follow! It makes me happy to see people like my story enough to follow it, so really, thanks you!**

**Ehm... well, yeah... that's about it for now!**

* * *

1975 turned out to be the worst year of the conflict so far, and it wasn't even done yet. The UVF and the IRA were fighting each other almost directly at this point: whenever either one of the two would do something, the other would soon retaliate. An example of this was the attack on the Miami Showband, a popular cabaret band in the Republic of Ireland by the UVF. It killed three of the band members and two of the UVF members, when the bomb they used exploded too early for them to get away. Soon after, a bar frequented by the UVF was attacked by the IRA, killing another five people, of which only one was a member of the UVF and the others were innocent protestant civilians.  
Ireland, much to the nations' relief, was involved in none of these attacks, though he had participated in three more minor shootings so far. He had been able to avoid killing anyone in either of the attacks, though they all knew that wouldn't last if he were to continue his personal operation.

By now, however, he had to admit that he was doing this for more than just information. If he proved to be useful now, if he proved he was trustworthy and doing everything he did in everyone's best interest, perhaps Northern Ireland's view of him would change. Maybe the boy would come to see how much Ireland cared about him, how much he was prepared to fight for him and the sacrifices he was willing to make for the young nation. And then, maybe, when the day came that he would choose a side... he would choose Ireland instead. He'd regained his senses on the matter of getting North over to his side: he couldn't force the boy to join him, that wouldn't solve anything, if not make it even worse. But he would get him to choose again, and choose right this time.  
If he had to be honest, he felt guilty about these thoughts, but he couldn't help them. They existed within his mind whatever he did, remaining buried deep inside however much he told himself he was doing this only for his little brothers, not for himself. He'd been in pain from the moment he gave North to his younger brothers when the nation had been just a baby, a terrible pain that had been a constant presence for decade after decade. A pain he saw only one solution to: to have North by his side once more, without having to give him up ever again. But sometimes it seemed that day would never come. And maybe, he told himself, maybe he didn't even want that day to come. So long as North was happy, that would be enough, right? It should be. But he'd known for decades now that it wasn't, not like this, and that this was a fight he simply couldn't give up. Even if he had to resort to dirty tricks, he was pretty sure he was willing to use them at this point. Anything to have North back.

So maybe, just maybe, he would have to join more of the IRA's attacks. And maybe he could use them, twist them to his advantage, make North finally see some sense. Maybe he could. But he knew he shouldn't. "But what else can I do?" he muttered to himself, voice just above a whisper. "What can I possibly do to make you stay with me?" If people knew just how much he did to find a way to get North back, they would tell him to stop right away, might tell him it was an obsession. But that would be too late: it already was one. Had been for a long time. But a child was an obsession anyway, in some ways. No matter what you did, no matter what happened, they would always be in your mind, in your heart, never leaving. Always present.

And then he reminded himself that his brothers had the right to end his life if he were to betray their trust.  
If they knew what was on his mind every time he worked with the IRA, the next visit they would pay him would be at a graveyard.

* * *

It was past seven in the evening when Scotland finally arrived at England's place. He would've been there sooner, in time for dinner in fact, had it not been for the accident on the way here: some car had driven into another one, causing a roadblock for two hours and three badly injured people. If those humans weren't hurt so bad, Scotland would've been more open about how annoyed he was, though ethics said he shouldn't be now. He _was_ fully open about being hungry, though, made no attempt to hide that. "Well, laddie, if ye plan to be somewhere before dinner," he said through as mouthfull of potato as England just joined him at the table, "and ye have to wait for two hours longer than ye planned-"  
"Ye get bloody hungry!" England finished for him, mimicking his brother's voice and accent as best he could. "Trust me, Allistair, I know. Just shut up and eat your dinner, alright? And when you're on your way back in a few days, consider maybe taking a sandwich or two with you, just in case something happens again." Scotland huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum," he mumbled when he'd swallowed his food, smirking at his little brother.

"I'll just be upstairs for a bit," England then said with a sigh, getting up. Scotland just nodded and said that was alright, though he stared after his younger brother as he walked away, a bit disappointed. He had just arrived on his visit for the week, and his brother was walking away from him already? "That's no way to treat a guest, laddie," he mumbled softly as England's footsteps faded up the stairs. "Even if said guest has been a regular visitor for 300 years already." But he shrugged. Maybe England was just busy. Though, now that Sealand had a sleepover at some friend's house, he shouldn't be _this_ busy, right? That he should still work this late in the evening? "Oh, shut up, me," he then sighed to himself. "Yer thinkin' too much." That, and he was still hungry. He should really listen to England for now and just eat this long-overdue dinner before it would grow cold _again_.

When he was finished he just went to do the dishes, wondered for a moment what England was doing that took so long, then shrugged it off and flopped down onto the couch, hoping to find something interesting on the television. There was nothing else to do now, after all. He'd been sitting there for just about ten minutes when England came down again, though Scotland couldn't help wondering for a moment if this really was his little brother, the same one who'd just left the room half an hour ago. He looked a bit unsteady on his feet and his eyes were glazed over a little. "Artie?" he asked tentatively as the younger nation sat down beside him. "Are ye okay, lad?" England nodded, though it was a little twitchy, a bit forced. And when he answered with "yeah, yeah, I'm fine, perfectly fine," it sounded off, not only the words but also his voice. Scotland silently inspected him for a moment longer, sighed and then checked his temperature, which was completely normal. And the economy, though not too great, had been steady for long enough that they all shouldn't get sick easily anymore. "Artie, what's wrong, really?" he asked again, and this time, England didn't even seem to hear him. He shook him gently, at which the younger nation looked up, blinking once as he stared at Scotland with a distant gaze. But now that he saw his eyes, Scotland was relieved to at least see that his little brother wasn't feeling bad: he looked content and comfortable enough, sitting there, though his mind seemed to be on a very long journey at the moment. But he also noticed the dark lines under his eyes a heartbeat later._ He must be really tired,_ he thought, trying to tell himself it was only that. _He must've had a lot of work, and finished it just now._ He simply smiled then, faking warmth, and suggested, "Artie, why don't ye just go to bed, get some sleep? Ye look dead on yer feet, lad. I'm sure ye'll feel better after ye've rested the night."

England just nodded then, biting back a huge yawn that escaped his lips seconds later, anyway. "Good idea... Goodnight, then." Scotland just gave him a firm pat on the shoulder as he got up and left, swaying just the slightest as he walked. He sighed as he stared at his little brother walking away again, shaking his head slowly. "Take better care o'yerself, laddie," he mumbled, knowing England couldn't hear him. "I know we've a lot of work with all this goin' on, but don't overdo it." He turned back to the tv then, hoping once more to find something interesting, but there wasn't much to choose from. Just twenty minutes later, he turned it off, walked away and decided to go to bed early for once, too. Maybe it would be good for him as well -he'd been working a lot lately, just like England, after all. He went upstairs, didn't care for brushing his teeth this evening (they wouldn't exactly rot either way, and if they somehow did, they would grow back after sometime like when they lost one otherwise) got changed, put his glasses on the bedside table and just sat for a moment. When it was dark like this, barely any light from the stars filtering through the window and without his glasses on, it was sometimes like he was blind all over again. But for some reason that sensation had grown to be comforting over the years, gave a feeling of security. There was nothing around him, only silence and darkness, he could really think for a moment, or just relax. Sometimes he just needed that, though he couldn't imagine what it would be like if ever he lost his sight again. Most likely he'd beg his brothers to kill him if he did and it would never again recover. And they wouldn't listen for sure. But it wouldn't happen, and he could just have these silent, isolated moments to himself.

But this time he got up again after a little while, quietly made his way over to England's room, opened the door and peered inside. He didn't really see anything more than faint outlines in the darkness, recognised the only one that wasn't completely still as his little brother, but could tell a lot from them. The sound helped a lot, too. England liked to say he was a silent sleeper, and given, he was, compared to Scotland. But silent? Hardly. No one was, with the deeper, more rythmic breathing. From the sound of that and the lack of much movement, he could easily tell his little brother was fast asleep. The Scot just smiled, reassured by this that England had just been tired like him, went to bed and engulfed himself in the silent void he'd grown to love. It was what got him into a sleep as peaceful and deep as his little brother's now was, every night without fail.

* * *

The only thing he really knew right now was that he was dreaming.  
Northern Ireland was in a forest, much bigger and much more lush and green than any forest he'd ever seen before. He knew it must be older than him by many centuries, and nonexistent in the world of today. He was curious to see what would happen in this dream, and had a strange sense of deja-vu all at the same time. He felt overwhelmed as he recalled stories from his brothers about growing up in the woods, and going back into the woods in their dreams and meeting their mother again.  
And just when he thought this, he heard a strange voice behind him, warm and soothing, but unfamiliar. And he wasn't surprised.

"It's good to see you at last, young one," the woman behind him greeted him with a warm smile. He spun around the face her, his eyes wide. She was a female copy of England, or rather England was a male copy of her, but she looked familiar at the very first glance because of this. Confused as he was, her name was the only thing he could get over his lips just then. She just smiled and nodded, confirming that this was Britannia.  
"Why are you here?" North asked her after a moment of stunned silence. Britannia sighed, looking at him with a warm gaze. "You have doubts," she answered, and Northern Ireland thought he could see a shimmer of sadness in her eyes as she spoke. "Doubts about yourself and my sons."

_Her sons._ The way she said this confirmed the one thing North had been nearly certain of for a long time already. He wasn't one of them, wasn't her child like them. _Does that make me Ireland's instead?_ he couldn't help thinking, and even less could he help the pang of fear and uncertainty he felt at that thought. He didn't want to be. Did he? Britannia, guessing his thoughts, shook her head. "No, boy, that doesn't mean anything. Not even I can give you any answers about this."  
"Then what _do_ you want to tell me?" North asked, unable to suppress the frustrated edge to his voice. "Why else would you be here, if it is about my 'doubts' about them?"  
"Because there's one thought I want to get out of your head once and for all," the ancient personification then said, her voice suddenly harder than it was only seconds ago. This confused North only more, but it also silenced him so he would listen. "Don't you ever think," Britannia went on, very serious and clearly determined to get this in the boy's head, "that any of them doesn't care about you more than anything in the world. That you are not the most important thing in their lives. You have thought that, haven't you?"

Her words hit close to home, and for a moment Northern Ireland couldn't answer. He _had_ thought that sometimes, he had thought that the conflict between his brothers had been more about land and people than him sometimes. That his landmass and his people were the only reasons they wanted him. Why else would they keep fighting, when North had already made his choice? He wasn't the one important to them, _those things were._ And he knew he was wrong. Britannia blinked once, then went on: "I know all three whom I lived to meet, when you ask about me, will only tell you stories of how I always put them first and cared for them. That I always loved them more than anything. But that's wrong."  
North's eyes widened in shock at this. No, right? All he had ever heard, was that Britannia had been close to a saint, willing to put herself aside and even ruin her own health for the sake of her children. And now that woman was telling her his brothers had been wrong about her?  
"When I first had Eire," Britannia explained, "I didn't even know I was having a child until weeks before his birth. No one ever told me anything about what was going on, I didn't know what it was. And I didn't want a child to look after. I was terrified and hated him." She paused, giving North the time to let those words sink in. He doubted she even wanted to say this, and he wondered why he had to hear it. Wasn't this just a dream? Maybe she wasn't real. His brothers had told him she looked very much like England, that's how he knew what she looked like. But then the ancient woman went on, and he couldn't not listen. "In that respect, Albion isn't too different from me when it comes to caring for his son. It took me about as long as him to grow to care for Eire. I wanted him gone, but couldn't bring myself to abandon or starve him, so I fed him and kept him with me. Eire was too young then to remember this, and I trust you will never tell him."

North just nodded, silent. He would never. This information, though the older nation would definitely understand, would crush what he'd known his entire life. _Like what he did to me,_ North then thought, his heart pounding against his ribs. _I have something to do exactly what he did to me then..._ But he would never, he told himself. He wouldn't be that cruel.  
"That was me," Britannia then said, interrupting his thoughts. "No matter how great the stories you've heard about me, it took me seasons to get there. Your situation is different, boy: even though you may think it is worse, it's much better. Because the four nations you think may not care about you loved you deeply from the moment you were born. They didn't know what you were to them, except that you're a relative. And they still don't. Even when he wasn't sure _what_ you were -human or nation- Eire immediately took care of you and stayed with you until you were peacefully asleep. Albion found it much easier to part with his older brother if it meant you came into their lives -not the landmass, not the people, _you_. You were the light in the darkest period of Cymru's life. Thanks to you being there, Alba could take his mind of Cymru's condition sometimes, something which he needed more than anything. Don't ever think they don't care, that you're not important to them, because you_ are_. Never doubt that."

Northern Ireland was silent for a long time, just staring at her, thinking. He was glad to hear that his fears were unnecessary, that he had no need for these doubts, but he didn't know why he was suddenly told this. When he asked this, Britannia suddenly looked a lot more like the caring, worried mother she was than she had a few moments ago. "Don't distance yourself from my sons too much. They deserve better than that, and so do you."  
"And how do I know this is real?" North then demanded, taking a step back from her and inspecting her carefully for a moment. "How do I know it's not just a dream, that what you're telling me is true?"  
"Does it matter?"  
Northern Ireland looked at her a moment longer, then blinked once and shook his head. It didn't, just hearing this was enough, whether it was true or not. And so would be hearing the answer to the other question he had. "Even though I'm not your son," he began softly, gaze turned to the ground, "and even though we've never met... have you been watching over me like my brothers told me you would? I always... always doubted that..."  
Britannia shook her head and smiled, a warmth in her emerald gaze as she looked at the young nation that said enough. "I always have, just like I do them. I may not have given birth to you, but if you're my sons' brother, you're just as much my child as them to me, don't ever worry about that. And if you're my grandson, then so be it. And even if we're not related at all, we're still family." Then, for the first time in this dream, Northern Ireland smiled as well. Britannia took a step closer to him and reached forward, placing her hand very lightly against his cheek, almost as if she wasn't even touching him at all, just hovering close to his face. Her skin felt warmer than he thought it would, but then he almost scolded himself for thinking she would be cold -she was dead, yes, but this wasn't her body. Of course it wouldn't be cold, not to mention this was a dream and anything could happen in dreams.

Two pairs of emerald eyes then locked a heartbeat later. The intensity of Britannia's gaze nearly forced Northern Ireland to breathe as softly as he could, not making a sound and not moving. There was such guilt in her eyes, pity, sadness and anger, though the latter was clearly not directed at the young nation in front of her. "If I could shield you from all the pain and fear that comes with this situation," she said softly, voice barely above a whisper, "please know that I would. I would protect you from all the suffering you've known in your young life. And I hate to say it, but unfortunately I cannot do so. But please understand that, despite this, I will be with you every step of the way." Emotions overwhelmed Northern Ireland for a moment and threatened to choke him. He was angry at hearing that she couldn't do anything for him, and angry at himself for even feeling like that -she clearly wanted to help him, and as she said, she would if she could. He shouldn't be angry, but he was, and extremely sad at the same time, knowing the one person he thought might be able to help him and to shed light on the many secrets and uncertainties within the family _wasn't_ capable of all that. But most of all he was relieved, happy, ecstatic even, that she would still support him through this, in her own distant way. "Don't you worry anymore now, dear one," Britannia said lastly, her voice sounding more distant than before in a way. "Everything will one day be settled."  
And with those parting words, North blinked open his eyes, being greeted by darkness. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling above him, thinking about what he'd dreamt. Then he closed his eyes again and drifted back into sleep, a dreamless one this time.  
And he knew, that no matter what happened and no matter what they might do, he was privileged to have brothers that cared so much about him. And he had decided just before he fell back asleep, that from now on he wouldn't hesitate anymore to return that unconditional brotherly love. It was as Britannia had said, after all: they too deserved it.

* * *

**Just so you know, Britannia is here for a reason. And she will be back for the same reason. (Though I'm not sure yet when...)**

**Well, I hope you liked the chapter! And please do forgive me if the next few chapters take longer as well -and blame my schedule. Until school is over starting next month, I'm busy. But I will find the time to write inbetween all that, I'm sure.**


	29. Chapter 29

**I managed to write a lengthy chapter again! *crying in joy***

**Mooseman135, thanks for the follow! And Crossfire for the review once again, of course! You're an observant reader, you know that? I drop one chapter of hints, and you know exactly where I'm going... bravo. *smirk***

**As for Ireland, well, at least he still knows something is wrong. The moment he loses that realisation, there's going to be big trouble... (again, no pun intended)**

**Anyway, there's a lot of different stuff happening in this chapter. And I also decided it was flashback time again -I think I haven't given _him_ any flashback scenes yet. No, it is not unnecessary. Yes, it was solely because I wanted to write it _so bad._ Even so, I hope you'll enjoy or at least appreciate that part...!**

**Now allow me some joy... Next week is my last week in school for this year! Of course, the week after, I'll have that stupid camp I mentioned before, but I can survive that. I think. Hope.**

**Now without further ado (I so love that sentence, haha):**

* * *

By October 1975, the UVF was once again banned by the British government, making it an illegal organisation. This came as a huge relief to the nations: while they all knew the organisation would keep existing, and that they would keep attacking for a long time yet, now at least there was hope that their actions would come less frequently. Now they had to work on driving back the IRA as well, and then there was hope of solving this once and for all. If only.  
On 22 November that year, the IRA ambushed a British observation post in County Armagh, close to the border with the Republic. Three British soldiers were killed, and another one badly injured. The IRA suffered no casualties at all. Needless to say, England was outraged that this had actually been an _ambush_, not just an attack -that he hadn't known about it beforehand.

"That's what we have you for, isn't it?!" he yelled at Ireland in sheer rage when the family got together again for discussions only four days later, on the 26th. "You should've told me about this long ago!"  
"I didn't know!" the older nation yelled back, getting just as angry by now. "They don't tell me every single thing they plan -only what they plan on using me for! Everything extra I can tell you, Arthur, is just pure luck that I overheard something! If you want to blame someone, go right ahead, so long as it isn't _me._" England gritted his teeth, glaring at his oldest brother with unhidden hatred. This hatred seemed to be directed more at the nation's people than the personfication himself, given, but it did nothing to get Ireland's mood back up, either.  
"Your position there has proven to be useless this entire year!" England said, hissed the words almost, from inbetween clenched jaws. "If you do not leave them after this-"

"Leave them?" Ireland echoed, taken aback. "You think I still can? You're more stupid than I thought, Arthur -I _cannot _leave them anymore! If I try to leave them now, I might get killed!" England only huffed and took a step closer to him, glaring murder at his older brother as he stared him straight in the eyes. "No, Cearul," he said slowly, voice soft but threatening, "if you _don't_ try, you'll get killed. Don't forget that the only ones able to take your life are surrounding you right here, not _there._" Ireland gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed in rage, and was about to reply when Wales and Scotland stepped in, pulling the two away from each other. "Alright, calm down, both of you," Scotland ordered them, after which Wales told them both more quietly to sit down, which they did. Northern Ireland glared at England for a heartbeat, as _he_ was the wrongdoer this time, but then controlled himself again. He could understand England's rage, though he did not approve of it being directed at Ireland just now. The oldest of the family had done nothing wrong. _Right?_ He'd been working hard for all of them. England would see that again soon, as he had until the recent attack. Right now he just needed to be angry, and soon it would be alright again.

"Arthur, no one is going to get killed," Wales then scolded his younger brother, "and no one is going to kill. Understood?" England stared at him for a few seconds, sighed, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine," he grumbled, then turned to Ireland again. "Sorry, Cearul, I... my temper got the better of me there. I know you're doing your best." Ireland gave a short nod.  
"Apologies accepted, lad," he answered with a smile. "I know this must've been hard on you, the ambush an' all that. And..." He trailed off, shook his head, and said nothing more. Northern Ireland noticed that he made an effort to not look at the young nation at all, only glancing at him once or twice but not saying anything to him. North would ask him about that later on. Because right now, the meeting was interrupted as they all knew it would be eventually. "Uncle Al, uncle Dylan!" came Sealand's voice from the open door, and they all turned to look at the micro-nation. The little boy jumped in joy at seeing his beloved uncles, then ran over to them and hugged them both. Then he climbed onto North's lap and greeted him in the same way, calling him 'uncle Con'. Lastly he looked at Ireland. "Hi, Cearul." Ireland blinked once, and looked a little disappointed that he apparently wasn't counted among the boy's uncles, while he most definitely _was_. North couldn't blame Sealand too much: Ireland was the one person in the family he saw least, only a few times a year, and he could imagine that there were times when England wasn't so keen on teaching him that Ireland was his uncle too, or even related at all. "Hi there, Peter." He still felt bad for Ireland, though. "How're you, kid?"

"I'm great!" Sealand beamed. "School is super cool! I don't have school in my country-" The five brothers exchanged a glance, but said nothing. "-but I really like it. Maybe I can build a school on my land, too, once there are more kids to go there."  
"That would be great, Peter," Wales said with a warm smile, trying his best not to ruin the child's joy by telling him that he had no country, no people, and not enough space on his 'land' to build _anything_, let alone a school. One day he would find out himself.  
England just silently leaned over and ruffled his son's hair a bit, trying to smile, though that part didn't really work out for him. He then sighed and got up. "I need a moment to myself for now, alright?" he told his brothers. "I'm still pissed, and... I just don't want to act it out on you anymore. I'll be back in a bit." Wales nodded, saying that was okay, and they would all take a break now. As England left, North asked Sealand softly if he could get off his lap again, and the little boy nodded before jumping back onto the floor. North then simply took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and turned to Ireland, who still refused to look at him. "Cearul?" he asked softly. "Is something the matter?"

Ireland hesitated, closed his eyes and shook his head, though he didn't speak and looked away from the young nation. Northern Ireland huffed, not convinced, and got up. "Cearul," he said again as he was walking over to his older brother. "Why won't you even look at me?" No one said anything, not even Sealand, though North was aware of him, Wales and Scotland watching the two Irish nations now. Ireland sighed, shifting uneasily, and still didn't look at North as he answered, "Coineach, it's just... I need some distance from you before I-..."  
"Before you... what?"  
"Before I do something stupid," was Ireland's flat answer, and finally, he looked at North. The younger nation was standing rigid, staring at his older brother emotionlessly. Then, after some silence, he nodded. "I see," he mumbled. "Alright, then." He turned away, but before he could walk back to his chair, Ireland grabbed him by the wrist, forcing him to look at him again. "Look, Coineach," he began, "I love you, alright? I don't want to hurt you, and if I do... and I _know_ I do so more often than I like... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."  
Northern Ireland only nodded. "I know." He then sat down again, and just then, Scotland let out a soft sigh.  
"Say, Old Man," the Scot began, looking at Ireland, "d'ye need a moment to talk 'bout what's going on?" Ireland looked up at him, surprised for only a moment, then gave a short nod and mumbled his thanks. The two then got up and walked away, leaving Northern Ireland to be with Wales and Sealand for now. Wales stared after his two older brothers for a moment, then turned back to North and smiled. "They'll be fine," he reassured his little brother. "And so will we all."

* * *

England's fingers twitched as he searched the drawer. Nine days. Nine days, three hours, some minutes. That's how long he'd lasted this time. He didn't have anything with him now, though, which was just as well. He should really be careful when his brothers were around. That, and he'd sworn never to take any when Sealand was with him, which was most of the time. But now that all the others were here as well and the boy was enjoying himself with annoying them, he didn't have to be alert all the time anymore, ready to take care of him. It was alright for now.  
And he really needed it. His head was throbbing, and if that wasn't reason enough to search for it, he didn't know what was. And then he found it: some painkillers. A fine replacement for now, and it would work against the headache. He took the bottle with him, hiding it, got a glass of water and went upstairs to the bathroom with both items. He'd chosen this particular room only because it was the only one upstairs that could be locked, and locking the door was the best course of action now, for sure. He sat down on the edge of the bath, put the glass down beside him for a moment, opened the bottle of pills and grabbed a few. The first was for the headache. The second to make sure its effects would last. The third, fourth and fifth because the numbing effect they had was just the best thing in this world. He chugged them down quickly, put the bottle away as to not be tempted to take more, then slid down into the empty bathtub. He closed he eyes there, trying to relax as he waited for the pills to do their job. They wouldn't be as effective as the usual stuff, but he was pretty sure that he'd taken enough of them. Not as effective, but close enough.

This had started almost four months ago now. While he was out one weekend, going to one of the regular clubs, some human had offered him some drugs. He didn't remember what it was -cocaine, heroine, it could've been anything, really- but he did remember being reluctant to try some. Only after the human, along with two others, had insisted for almost an hour straight, had he accepted, taking a shot. It had been to shut them up, honestly, until he realised how great that stuff felt.  
Two weeks later, he'd tried some again. And again two weeks after that.  
Now he was on an almost weekly dosis.  
He didn't always use the same stuff, however. That would be too expensive -not that he didn't have the money, but he just didn't want to waste it. Painkillers like these worked well enough, too, though they numbed the body more than they did the mind. And it was the mind he was aiming for. For a few hours each time, he could think about _nothing._ His mind was blank, no emotions to bother him, no worries to give him headaches. A single shot, a few pills, and he felt great again.

And the best thing was, that he was a nation. That he wasn't ruining his body like all the humans who used any kind of drugs. That he could use as much as he needed without fear of dying.  
Well, of course he knew that it was wrong, all this. He knew that very well. Once this stressful period was over, he'd stop, simple enough. But for now he just needed something to pull him through the weeks. Also, he'd never used anything when Sealand was there. He knew better than to get drunk or high with his son near him. He had never drunk a single drop of alcohol while the boy was awake since his _birth_. Only after he went to sleep, and never so much that he would get a hangover the next day. And the same with the drugs -if any, he would use it _after _Sealand went to bed, and little enough to be alert again the next day. That's the deal he made with himself, and he wouldn't break it.

Oh. It started to work now. He sighed, smiling as he lay there, enjoying the feeling of the headache fading, any feeling in his body fading, his consciousness fading. Within half an hour he should be alert enough again not to come across as high. Then he could return downstairs. Now, however, he would enjoy it while he still could.  
Painkillers never lasted as long as the actual stuff. The good stuff. The delicious stuff.  
The perfect stuff.

* * *

"Ye know ye can only blame yer people so much, right?" Scotland said to his older brother after Ireland had told him about what had been bothering him lately. The Irishman nodded, sighing softly. "I'm not trying to find an excuse," he said, not looking at Scotland right now. "Not for the full hundred percent, that is. But they're not making it easy on me." Scotland shook his head. He could understand that. Ireland's people wanted North back even more than he did himself, after all. That is, they wanted it just as much, but with so many more minds thinking the same thing. It was hard not to be affected by that. Sheer impossible, even. Scotland could recall many times when the will of his people had enhanced his own, or went against it completely. It could lead to great internal conflict. He patted his older brother on the shoulder for a moment, mumbling reassurance. "So long as ye don't act on it," he said, "it's okay. But promise me ye'll fight it." Ireland didn't hesitate before nodding. He was determined to.

"I don't want to hurt him."  
"I know."  
"Then what am I supposed to do now?" Ireland's voice quivered just the slightest as he spoke, and he took a deep, shaky breath before exhaling slowly. Beside him, Scotland only shook his head. That was something he couldn't help his brother with. "Though I must say," he added after a minute of silence had passed, "and I don't want to, but it has to be said... It's a good idea ye have, distancing yerself from him for now. Just make sure ye don't overdo it, and make it even worse. Ye'll have to find the balance b'tween talking to him and taking yer distance, an' that's not going to be easy at first. And if it only makes it worse, Old Man, we'll know it's not the right way, and should find another one."  
Ireland let that sink in for a moment, then he nodded, silently agreeing. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he told himself he would still talk to North, would still see him and know how he was doing, though just not as much as now. _Even less_, a tiny voice in the back of his head then whispered. _You're going to see him even less than before. And your time with him has already been lessened since you became a republic -they're trying to take it all away from you, one step at a time._  
_Shut up_, he retorted in silence. _**I'm**__ the one doing this, not them. And it's the right thing to do._ It was. It would be. He would do this -he could. He just knew he could, and he had to. "Do you think I should discuss this with Coineach as well?" he asked Scotland lastly, and the Scot nodded, though he added they would do so later -first they had a meeting to finish.

* * *

"Arthur, are you sure you're alright?" Wales asked softly as the meeting continued. England's hand was shaking a little as he was holding a pen to take notes. But the younger nation only nodded again. "I'm quite fine, Dylan," he reassured his older brother with a smile. "I already told you, I haven't slept well since the attack. Combining that painkiller for the headache with my fatigue might not have been the best idea..." He was silent for a moment, listening to what Scotland said and noting that, then glanced at Wales again. "I think I might just take a nap after we're done here, alright? No need to worry, I'll sleep then." Wales nodded in agreement. England looked like he hadn't slept all month, if he had to be honest. He was getting sickly pale, dark lines under his eyes like bruises. He was a little dazed more often as well, sometimes more than 'a little' dazed. Wales himself had slept rather bad as well lately, he had to admit. "Maybe I'll join you," he said in a whisper to his little brother, and England nodded, suppressing a chuckle. "Of course you will," he joked softly, rolling his eyes. But Wales saw something of distress flash in his younger brother's eyes, if only for a moment. Why? Did he want to be alone so bad? He had been planning not to actually _join_ England, but now he was, if only to keep an eye on him. Memories of England acting strange before were only too fresh, and memories of what happened after those periods even more so. He listened to his brothers for a moment as they discussed things, but when he heard nothing important was to be said anymore, he stared at England sideways and let himself drift off into the world of his memories...

The first time he'd noticed England's fragile mind was over two centuries after he'd been annexed by the younger kingdom, nearly halfway through the 16th century. So many years after losing his independence, he was still bitter about it. He hated that his little brother had control over him, he hated that he looked so much like him and people often called him England even though the differences between them should be clear enough. His hair was a lot darker, leaning more towards brown than blonde during winters, getting a shade lighter in the summer sun. England's was pale blonde. Wales' eyes were darker than England's. He was roughly an inch taller than him. He wore his hair in a ponytail shorter than his little brother's.  
He looked more like a poor farmer than the royalty his little brother was.  
He was a worthless little principality compared to him.  
He hated England.  
How could people still get it wrong sometimes? Somehow they managed. It frustrated him to no end, and his mood was as dark as the nightsky most of the time, causing people to avoid him rather than anything else. But not England. The stupid kid still thought he could 'be friends' with his brother, as he put it, after two centuries of receiving nothing but hate from his older brother. But then again, he was still a kid. Fourteen, maybe fifteen years old physically. Wales was proud of the fact that he was the only one of the two that had to shave regularly already: it was the one thing that showed that England was a kid, and _he_ was becoming a man. England was inferior, _he_ was the older brother. If only it worked like that outside his own mind, as well.

What he was most angry about now, however, wasn't all that. It was that England would be returning from a long journey to Scotland today, and Wales had been told to stay home in the king's castle. Which he hated. He wasn't quite treated like garbage anymore like in the first years, but he still disliked it here. He'd begged England to allow him to come to Scotland, though he wouldn't exactly call it 'begging' now, for the sake of what was left of his self-esteem. But England had told him that wasn't his decision to make, that it was the king's, and though he'd told his older brother he would ask the king if Wales could visit Scotland as well, Wales was pretty sure he hadn't done so. Because the very next day, he was told he couldn't go. "But I haven't seen Scotland in ages!" Wales had protested loudly, somewhere between yelling and crying, though he tried his best to hide the latter. He desperately wanted to see his older brother again. "The last time I saw him, we said to each other we'd meet again soon! That was _before_ you annexed me!" England had watched him with clearly visible guilt in his eyes, but Wales hadn't even noticed in his rage. "You always say you care about me and that you want me to care about you as well, because I'm your older brother! Well, he's _my_ older brother, England, and of everything I've lost since I became your little principality, he's the only thing I know I can get back if you'd allow me to. He's the world to me, England..." But England had shook his head, apologised and said again that Wales couldn't come: king's orders. Then Wales had stomped off and went to the stables to air his frustrations to the horses there. They seemed to be the only creatures that really listened to him, apart from a few servants.

And now he watched as his little brother walked back onto the castle grounds. He looked worn out by the long journey on horseback, something which Wales could understand very well. It had taken weeks to get there and weeks to return as well, but he would've _loved _to go to Scotland so much. On foot if necessary. He'd tried to run several times, but was always caught again soon enough. When England got closer, Wales glared at him with as much hatred as he could manage, which was quite a lot. England's eyes lit up when he saw his older brother, though not nearly as much as they usually did, and it lasted only a heartbeat. Then he saw the young nation sigh and look away as he walked past, looking exhausted and miserable. "What's the matter, England?" Wales asked him tauntingly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Wasn't Scotland just absolutely _delighted_ to see you again? Is that it?" England didn't answer, walked inside without even looking over his shoulder, and Wales huffed angrily. Then he just walked away in the opposite direction, back to the stables again. At least he was allowed access to horses whenever he wanted.

But the following days, England's mood didn't get any better. After a week Wales started asking around if anyone knew what was going on, but he got only shrugs and mumbles for an answer. Eventually he asked England himself, and the young nation pulled him along into his bedroom, blocking the door as they talked. "When I was with Scotland," he began with a quivering voice, "every non-business related moment I had with him, all he asked about was _you_, Wales." Wales' heart felt like a rock and fluttered both at the same time. He missed his brother so much, and he was glad to hear Scotland missed him, too. "I'm so sorry, Wales... I wish I could've taken you with me."  
Then his heart sank. And a moment later, it started beating wildly in rage. "No you don't!" he snapped, glaring at England again. "You don't care at all! You're _glad_ I couldn't come to Scotland -you just love keeping me from my brothers, don't you?"  
England shook his head and protested that he didn't, that he did care, and that he wanted Wales to be able to be with his brothers as much as himself. "The king never denies you access to Ireland when he comes here!" he put in as well. "You've always been allowed to spend time with him and talk to him to your heart's content -_because of me asking for it!"_

"Oh, yeah, because I just _loooove_ spending time with Ireland!" Wales yelled back. "He's the definition of oddball, and not always in the good way, and you know it! Look, I love him since he's my brother, but he's not Scotland! And I'm not seeing Scotland anymore because you've _never asked for it! _You take away everything I love just to make my life miserable and your's better!"  
"Better?" England echoed in disbelief. "Wales, if you think my life is any better than your's, you're mistaken! I hate it here as much as you do, I'm just as miserable as you are and-!" He was cut off by a sob, and quickly hid his face in his hands as he cried. Wales narrowed his eyes. "Man up a little, England," he growled. "You've taken everything from me, and I haven't shed a single tear for as long as I've been here! What reason do you have to cry like a baby?" England didn't answer, but as Wales looked at him, saw his narrow, shaking shoulders and the soft skin on his hands, he realised England's age again. He was just a boy. Wales was becoming a man. _He_ was the older brother, the stronger one, the wiser one, not England.  
And completely against his will, he recalled having watched England grow up from a distance. Every few years he would visit him before the annexation. Every few years he watched him grow a little older, a little bigger. And a little more lonely. Wales had contact with Scotland, Ireland and the family's cousin, Isle of Mann, as regularly as he could with the long distances he had to travel to see them. When England saw them, it was mostly in battle. He was so lonely. And so young.  
Such a fragile soul.  
And a fragile heart.

"Hey, England," Wales sighed softly, all the anger vanishing from his voice, "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry..." He just sat down beside him, one hand on his shoulder. It was that day that he decided to look after his little brother as he should, no matter the personal grudges he might bear. He was the older brother, and the young nation was so easily hurt. He had to look after him, care for him, talk to him, spend time with him... love him. He promised himself he would fulfill all brotherly duties, like he never had before.

And since then, he always had. And he always would.  
_I'll find out what's wrong with you now, Artie, _he vowed silently. _And then I'll make you alright again._

* * *

**Well, I hope you liked the chapter! I'll try to finish the next before camp (wow, chapter 30 already)... If I don't manage, I'm sorry, you'll have to wait for two whole weeks for once! Ah, like that even matters, right?**

***Ireland being an oddball: in my head, right around that time, Ireland was getting sick of humans and 'modern' civilization (he has a tendency to do that once every few centuries) and decided to go back to his roots: find a nice cave to live in in a forest, eat berries, nuts and freshly-caught deer, leave all sense of civilization behind... unless it was official business or the church. I have this little scene in my head all the time now, of Wales complaining to England about Ireland's little quirks around that time... "He took me hunting when he was here," Wales muttered darkly, staring at the ground, and a shiver went down his spine. England tilted his head. "What's the problem with that?"  
"Did you know he _strokes_ the animals he kills and says a _prayer_ for their souls?"  
"He did that?"  
"Does that, England. Does that. Every. Single. Time."  
"Weirdo."**

**Hmmm... there's not much else I can say now, and I doubt you'd want that anyway. Oh well. Long story short, Ireland is going crazy, England is doing drugs and Wales took a stroll down Memory Lane. Oh joy, huh?**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked the chapter!**


	30. Chapter 30

**Well Holy- I can't believe how quickly this chapter was done, considering its size... and the fact that the next is halfway done already, as well.**

**Must be the angst in it.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! Yes, Ireland is becoming really... well, how should we call it... insane? I don't even know how to call it, and I write it, so... it's complicated, isn't it? Anyway, I am enjoying my last week so far! I only have one test and one project left to finish, and then I'm done. Thank the heavens.**

**Well, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! Some things you mentioned, Crossfire, are in here, and I hope it's a satisfying outcome (aaah, how should I put that? You know what I mean, right? XD)**

* * *

"Ireland," the Irish president, Ó Dálaigh, began to his nation. He was reluctant to say all this now, but he knew very well that he had no choice. Ireland could see it in his eyes. This human was the fifth president of Ireland, and had been for the past year now. Ireland thought he was a fine president so far, and he didn't hesitate to always listen to this man and seriously consider everything he said. This time wouldn't be so easy, however, they both knew. "Ireland," the human said again, sighing, "the situation is escalating -has been for years already. Now, however, it's escalating in _you_ personally." Ireland nodded, agreeing silently. "Also, as you must've noticed," the president went on, "our economy is facing a difficult time-" Ireland nodded again. He'd felt this before the humans had done the maths -when he started feeling twenty years older than his body was, when his stamina was slammed down to 50% of what it used to be or less, that was when economical trouble was not far ahead. "-and issues with the economy can lead to even more extremist actions. Facing this in the near future, the people need their nation again, Ireland." Ireland didn't nod now, and neither did he look up, or even move at all. His breath caught in his throat as he realised what his leader was trying to tell him. His face felt hot with shame as the president went on. "You told me not long ago that, for the sake of your four younger brothers, you had to learn to disconnect from your people. But truth is, Ireland, that you appear to be an expert in doing so already: only not in the way you were planning to. Your first priority should always be your people, Ireland, and right now it isn't. You're a nation, so _be _a nation."

Ireland was silent for a moment longer, staring at the floor, feeling his face burn, and he knew it was red with shame right now. Had he really done that? Had he not cared about his people for so long? He didn't even need the answer to that question: he knew it already, and it made his heart twist painfully. "I'm sorry," he choked out softly, forcing himself to breathe again. "I-I'm so sorry, sir, I will-"  
"Don't call me 'sir', Ireland, I've already told you that many times."  
"R-right... Sorry." He sighed again, and a silence passed between nation and leader. Eventually the president placed his hand on Ireland's shoulder, and said carefully, "Look, Ireland, I understand you care about your little brothers, Northern Ireland especially, but your personal life should not stand in the way of you caring for your people. _They_ need you, more than your family ever will. You do understand that, don't you? Good... I don't like this conversation any more than you do, you know," he added, sighing, and Ireland finally dared to look up again, gaze locking with his leader's. "Over the years, one cannot help seeing the human side of nations, and I know that every word I'm saying now is torturing the human within you. But I also hope I'm hurting the nation -and knocking some sense back into him."  
"You are," Ireland then answered, closing his eyes and giving a short nod. "All of that, yes, you are. Especially the last part -I'm so sorry. Truly, words cannot express... how deeply _ashamed_ I am." He felt unworthy of being a nation right now. How could he have forgotten his people, the most important thing in his centuries-long life? Because he realised then that they were. Not England, not Wales or Scotland or even Northern Ireland -_his people_ were the most important thing. _Because I'm their nation._ He had never thought about it quite like that before, but he knew now that the only thing that hurt more than hurting his brothers, was knowing he'd been letting his people down.

"You do not need words to express that shame," the president said, a soft hint of warmth in his voice that told Ireland he wasn't angry with him or disappointed in his nation -only trying to remind him of his priorities. "Your eyes are doing that for you. I understand you've been having a hard time these past years... so go home for now, Ireland." Ireland looked up, blinking in surprise. He was sent home now? He had expected this conversation to go on for a while yet. But the human flashed him a tiny smile. "Go home, take some time to organise your thoughts. I expect you back here tomorrow for work -and I want you to be focused solely on the people then. Understood?" Ireland nodded, thanked the elderly man and promised that he would work on it. Then he left, doing as he was told and heading straight for home.

On his way back, he tried to block his own thoughts, which were constantly scolding himself now for being such an obsessed idiot. He'd done many stupid things in his long life, but he couldn't remember ever having let it get so far that he had to be scolded by his leader and needed to have sense knocked back into him quite like this. He hadn't quite been neglecting his people yet, but he had been acting more and more out of personal reasons, not national ones. And that had been the biggest mistake he'd made so far.  
_Dammit, _he thought to himself as he walked, gritting his teeth. _Why can't I ever do anything right?_ His brothers, his people, the entire world... maybe they would all be better off with a new Ireland, a replacement for him that hadn't quite gone insane yet. He stopped, sighing, his breath appearing white in the winter sky. No, he wouldn't let himself slip back into the mental state of late 1916 like this. Self-loathing, drowning in guilt and regrets and doubts? Never again. He decided that, the moment he came home, he would do the one thing he'd always told himself he would never do: seek out help. _Professional help_.

* * *

"Oh, Cearul, honestly," Wales sighed as he was on the phone with his older brother. Ireland had called because he needed someone to talk to, and Scotland hadn't picked up the phone -probably out for the afternoon. Ireland had told his little brother what the president had told him, and Wales was glad someone had finally decided to tell Ireland the truth for once. "Your thoughts are all over the place lately, aren't they?" Ireland sighed and mumbled a soft agreement. He sounded so tired, and it was barely four in the afternoon yet. To Wales, that was another sign that Ireland should really get his head organised again, if only for his own sake. All the others would eventually benefit from that as well.  
"Also, Dylan," Ireland said softly, a little reluctantly, "I wasn't planning on saying this at first, but then I thought, why hide it? It might be best if you all know, anyway... I've also made an appointment with a psychiatrist. The way my mind is working lately isn't healthy, and-"  
He kept going for a little while longer, but Wales had dropped off at the word 'psychiatrist'. Ireland and a psychiatrist? That was one combination everyone had seen coming yet had never believed would happen. Wales had mixed feelings about this one, if he had to be honest with himself. Sure, he was happy that Ireland was getting help and relieved that he'd had enough sense to see for himself that he needed it, but it pained him to know that Ireland's internal conflict had reached the point that he even _needed_ help and was aware of this himself. But at least with this, it had a chance of becoming better again. Normal. Ireland deserved that, and so did they all, but especially North. The boy needed a brother -or a father, whatever he wanted- that he could trust fully, not one he had to be careful around like now. Wales doubted Ireland was aware of it himself, but Northern Ireland had gotten very cautious around Ireland lately, having found the right balance between weariness and affection in this situation. Wales really hoped the weariness could soon disappear.  
"Do you think I've made the right choice, doing this?" Ireland asked, jolting Wales out of his thoughts again. He quickly nodded. "Oh, absolutely," he said immediately. "I mean, it's terrible to know that you need it, but... but you need help, brother. I'm just so glad you saw this yourself." Ireland hummed.

"By the way, Cearul," Wales eventually said, when a short silence had passed between them. He doubted for a moment whether he should tell Ireland this, when he was already such a mess himself, but Wales also needed this off his chest right now. "Have you noticed anything weird about Artie lately?"  
Ireland gave a confused, short hum, thinking for a moment. "Not really... though he looked a little pale during our latest meeting, now that you mention it. And some of his movements have gotten strangely... twitchy. Like when he was just sitting there, he kept tapping the table with one finger in weird twitches. I figured he was nervous, trying to hold back his anger or any such things -which turned out to be right." Wales listened silently, taking it all in whilst also thinking about how Ireland's entire mood changed when he was focusing on something else than the issues between him and Northern Ireland. He made a mental note of this: Ireland needed plenty of distraction._ You don't have to look after everyone, Dylan_, he then scolded himself, listening again to what Ireland had picked up about England, which was surprisingly much, considering he had been pretty out of it himself last time they'd seen each other. "The twitches stopped after our little break then, didn't they? I didn't notice them anymore then." Wales confirmed this. "But then he was all shaky and dazed. Maybe the troubled economy is getting to him?" Perhaps, but Wales highly doubted it was that. Given, the middle-east was giving all the western countries hell by denying them oil, and it would get a lot worse yet for everyone, but something told him that wasn't it. "Oh well," Ireland concluded, "maybe it's nothing. But I can tell you're going to investigate it, anyway. Good luck, detective Dylan."  
Wales snorted, lips twisting into a smile. "Thank you, Cearul. Good luck with the, er... stuff." Ireland said a quick thanks, then the two put the phones down.

* * *

Northern Ireland was with England in this last month of 1975. A worried Wales had asked him to keep an eye on England, but so far, he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. And besides, he was too tired to worry about his big brother right now. 1975 had turned out to be the worst year so far, and he was glad for it to be nearly over. The people in Northern Ireland were becoming tired and battle-weary by now, causing him to feel exactly like that, too. And the IRA, too, seemed to have lost most of their will to fight. Maybe soon, there would be hope for peace. Or else a few peaceful years compared to the hell the past year had been. Leaning back on the couch comfortably, watching the news on tv for a moment, he called to England on the other side of the room, "Arthur, are you feeling well?"  
England looked up, blinked at him in surprise, confused by that question. "Of course I am, Coineach!" North only mumbled that it was alright, then. "Why would you ask that?"  
"Just because? I'm asking how you are. Is that wrong?"  
"You weren't asking how I am, Coineach," England corrected him, staring at him through narrowed eyes. "You were asking me if I was alright. That's something else -that's you assuming something was wrong and asking me to confirm that."  
_See? _North mumbled to Wales in silence. _He's perfectly alright._ But at the same time, a little voice in his mind told him that something was off about England -and it was Wales' voice. _But he's being awfully defensive, isn't he?_

_I'm just annoying the crap out of him,_ North answered, sighing. _As I am myself._ He was so tired lately, he didn't feel up to anything except sleep. The economy was going bad, the political situation was still bad, the situation within the family was looking bad... everything was _bad_. Even little Sealand was becoming less oblivious of everything, and thus less cheerful as well. He closed his eyes and sighed again, very deeply this time, so loud that England heard him. "Coineach, listen to me," he said sternly, looking at the boy with a mixture of worry and annoyance, "you have two choices now: either you are going to keep moping and nothing will change, or you will do as you said you would almost a year ago, and try to see the bright side of life."  
"Bright side?" Northern Ireland echoed flatly. "What bright side? There is no bright side here: only darkness, pain, death and destruction. If you don't see that, Arthur, then you're fucking blind."  
England sighed, pausing for a moment, clearly wondering if it was any use talking to North right now. "And what about the fact that the IRA and UVF are both getting tired of fighting?" he tried. "Surely it's something positive that soon, there might not be any fights at all anymore?"

Northern Ireland shrugged. "That's only because they've completely worn themselves out by _fighting so much._" England seemed to be getting angry now, and North had to stop himself from flinching when the older nation snapped: "That's the _dark_ side of it! The bright side, Coineach, is that there will not be as much death and destruction anymore now, and life will be less painful soon -physically at least. Mentally, you will have to put in some effort yourself as well, so get a move on already and do it!" North didn't respond anymore now, only bit the inside of his lip and did his best not to even look at England. No matter what he said, the older nation didn't know what this was like. He'd never gone through anything like it -difficult, painful, horrible things, yes, but nothing quite like this.  
England didn't accept his silence, however. "Look, kid," he said angrily, walking over to North now, "life won't get any better unless you make it so. This situation won't be solved unless _you_ get up and do something about it! The worst part is, Coineach, that you must know all this, but instead of doing something you decide to sit on your lazy arse and mope all day. You just _want _this to last for years and years yet, don't you? So you'll have a reason to feel sorry for yourself." Northern Ireland bit his tongue as to not say anything, but he could feel his face flush hot and his eyes pricking with tears. How dare England say all this? Half of it wasn't even true! Was it? "You should know by now that life will never be fair on you. So it is up to you to make the best of it, because fate won't be kind and take pity on you anytime soon. Do you understand?" Northern Ireland tensed, clenching his jaws and closing his eyes tightly. He would not. He would _not._ "_Do you_?"

And then he did anyway. England was silent for a moment as he watched the boy cry, desperately fighting back his tears and clenching his jaws to stop the sobs and whimpers. He then repeated one last time, in a soft voice and without any anger behind it, "Do you understand, Coineach?" North nodded, still trying to silence himself again. He didn't want to cry anymore, didn't want to feel this pain, and feel so weak because of it. Why couldn't he just deal with it? Everyone else could. But everytime he tried to make the best of it as England said, something would go horribly wrong, and it would all have been for nothing. "W-we promised we would try to -to make our r-relationship _better!_" he choked out, hurt and angry at the same time. "We _promised_ and now he won't even talk to me nor-normally!"  
"This is about Cearul, then?" England asked softly, sitting down beside North. He hadn't thought the boy would be so hurt after Ireland's decision a short while ago. But then again, he could completely understand -all year the two had tried to makes things between them better, as near to how it once used to be as they could, but instead it only seemed to get worse. "I hate him!" North declared, stifling his sobs. "I hate him and his stupid decisions! Does he ever think about _me_ when making them? Does he ever consider _my _feelings, too?"  
"He does think about you, Coineach," England told him softly. "That's the whole problem: in everything he does, he thinks about you _too much._ I'm not sure if considering your feelings comes into that as well, but I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't... He, too, has a lot to deal with right now." Why was he even trying to defend Ireland at this point? The oldest of the five nations had caused so many problems this century -first his independence right in the middle of the godforsaken world war, now the battle for Northern Ireland. _I should've never let you go_, England decided, rage bubbling up inside him, directed both at Ireland and his own stupid decision. He knew that if Ireland hadn't left, he wouldn't have lived to see the end of this century. But England could live with losing his older brother, if it had spared the rest of the family so many troubles for so many years._ You can die now for all I care,_ he thought bitterly. _It would solve all the problems you've caused._

But England wouldn't be the one to end him. He trusted that, if it would ever happen, it would be Ireland's own doing. He could probably live with him dying -but not with killing him. That was a time long gone now.

* * *

The end of the year came and months passed by. By late spring 1976, the brothers' theory had proven right: now that both sides were getting sick of battle, there weren't so many fights anymore. Ireland had picked up some useful information within the IRA, however: though they would cease to attack as frequently as they used to, they had decided on a tactic they called 'Long War', in which they would spread out the attacks over a longer period of time, slowly exhausting the enemy and driving them out like that.  
Other than that, things for him personally seemed to be working out now that he had almost weekly appointments with a psychiatrist, though it was a bit slow. The human had said that was normal: this was something that had developed over several decades, and it would be impossible to solve it in a few months' time. He and Northern Ireland were still keeping their distance, however, something they had decided on _together_ after a long and serious conversation.

On the other hand, England's condition was slowly deteriorating. By now, the others didn't think Wales was overreacting anymore, like they had at first. Though they didn't know what was going on, they could all clearly see what it caused. He was getting even paler than when Wales first started noticing things, he was losing weight and sometimes said things that were completely out of character for him. Possibly the worst part of it, was that he had freguent stings in the heart without there being an attack or anything of the sort in London. There seemed to be no reason for what looked like short, mild heart attacks. Sealand had been told by Wales to come to Cardiff with him for some time, to give England some space to deal with whatever was going on, but when he went to bring the boy back home, it had only gotten worse.  
That had been a week ago, when he had decided to stay with England for a little while. Not liking it at home at the moment, Sealand had asked to go to Scotland, and the older nation had taken him in with open arms, telling Wales again that he had to find out what was wrong quickly.

He had a feeling today would be that day. England had acted a little off all morning, disappeared into his room for just an hour around noon, then when another hour had passed, _this_ had started. First he'd had that heart attack-lookalike again, now he was curled up and shaking in pain, tortured by what seemed like the worst stomach ache Wales had ever witnessed. If he didn't know any better, the amount of pain England seemed to be in would've made him think he was giving birth or something. He was completely out of it, unable to talk much, whimpering and whispering incoherent things. Wales didn't catch what he was trying to say, if anything at all.

"Artie," he whispered to him, one hand to the younger nation's forehead, fixing it in place so he couldn't turn away as Wales was trying to talk to him. "Arthur, please, can you tell me what's wrong?" He'd been trying this for a while now, to no avail. England would only whimper, mumble things his older brother couldn't even hope to follow as his eyes darted from one point to another, as if he were looking at things Wales couldn't see. This time, however, his words seemed to actually answer the older nation's question. England shut his eyes tight, clenching his jaws as he curled up further, arms wrapped around his abdomen. "Ss...s-si..ck..." he managed to choke out. Wales sighed. He could tell that much, yes, he didn't need England telling him that. "You mean, you _feel_ sick?" he inquired, anyway. "Nauseous?" England only nodded feebly. Wales stared at him a moment longer, stroked his hair a bit, which was sticky with sweat. He didn't have a fever, but his muscles were so tense, it was taking as much energy as running a marathon would, it seemed. "I'll get you a bucket," he whispered, getting up and doing exactly that. Gods, he was so worried, words couldn't describe it no matter how hard he tried, and that while he'd always been told he knew his way with words very well.  
He returned, placed the bucket on the ground next to England's face, then knelt down beside him again. His eyes trailed to England's hands, which were desperately clutching his stomach to try and ease the pain through pressure. He then gently tried to move them away. "Let me just take a look at that, Artie," he said softly, pulling on the younger nation's arms a bit harder when he struggled and refused to let go. Eventually he gave in, allowing his brother to check his stomach, which appeared to be the centre of the pain. Wales had considered food poisoning for just a moment a little while earlier, but that would've been over already, or at least not as bad anymore.

He narrowed his eyes as he inspected his little brother's stomach carefully. He was so thin nowadays, it was easy to see the area was slightly distended. Though what had caused that, he had no idea. When he tried to put some pressure on it, he found every muscle in England's body was tense. He couldn't even begin to imagine the pain he was going through. He sat there for a moment longer, wondering what he could possibly do to help, when England suddenly began retching, spasms going from midriff to abdomen. Wales took a step back as England weakly leaned over the bucket his brother had placed beside him, his chest heaving with ragged breaths for a moment until he threw up. Wales immediately noticed something was off about his vomit -and the heavens knew that was the last thing he wanted to check- and when England flopped back onto the couch, gasping for breath and curling up again, he carefully pulled the bucket his way a bit. The stench of it was overwhelming, and he absolutely didn't want to do this, but he forced himself to look, anyway.  
Only to be met by the sight of at least a dozen half-digested pills.

He paled, feeling sick himself for a moment, then turned to England, who was breathing a little steadier again, no longer in quite so much pain now that he'd gotten rid of this, though he still looked very uncomfortable. "A-Artie..." he choked out for a moment, unable to think or say anything more in pure shock. _This_ was what England had been doing for months on end? _This_ was what he had been hiding? Then he got angry, rage bubbling up quicker with the second. "No wonder you're so sick!" he yelled at him, his voice getting louder and angrier with each word until he was screaming at him. "Anyone would be in pain and throwing up if they had a stomach full of pills! What are they, anyway? Painkillers? Medicine? Drugs? What does it even matter -it's fucking _drugs_ whatever you've been taking!" His anger faded a little when he saw the discomfort England was still in, and worry took over again. "Arthur, tell me: _was that all?_"  
England only blinked at him, rasping weakly, "Depends... h-how many...?" Wales looked again reluctantly, and counted roughly fourteen. _Fourteen._ Yet, England shook his head, clearly indicating that he had taken even more than that -many more.

"Fuck," Wales spat. "Fuck, Arthur. I'm calling an ambulance." England whimpered again, staring up at his brother with pleading eyes. "Please, don't..." he whispered feebly. "Please... don't..." But Wales, worried sick and enraged like he'd never been before, just snapped at him that he _would_, no matter what England would say. "You're such and idiot, Arthur!" he yelled at him as he quickly picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number. "You stupid-brainless-fucking-wanker-moron-idiot-inconsiderate-bloody-foolish-" He was listing every word he could imagine to describe his little brother right now, waiting for the phone to be picked up, which it soon was. "I need an ambulance," he quickly said, explaining that he had a younger brother who'd taken a medication-overdose. He didn't add that it was England, deciding it was best if no one knew _that_ detail. They would just think he made a quick recovery once he was in hospital and treated. He was then asked for an adress, which he also gave without hesitation. He had no doubts that England would recover quickly, but for it to be quick enough, he needed help now as soon as possible.  
"Is he still conscious?" he was then asked.  
"Conscious enough to beg me not to call for help," he muttered, sending England, who was still pleading him not to do this, a scorching glare. "I don't know what or how much he's taken, other that _bad stuff _and _a lot of it._"  
"Does he have a history in drug abuse?" Damn, that question hit closer to home than he thought it would.  
"Apparently so," Wales just answered, sighing. "But I wasn't aware of it until today, so I have no clue how long he's been doing this. And..." He glanced at England, who had given up his attempts to stop his older brother and was now curled up again, face twisted in pain. "...I don't think he's capable of telling me right now."

He was told to stay by his brother's side at all times now until the ambulance arrived, and to see if he could get him to vomit again to get rid of more of the drugs. He didn't see the use in the last part: it would only serve to ease England's pain, and that was the one thing Wales didn't want to do. He deserved every second of it. Soon enough the ambulance came, and Wales didn't say one word to England on the way to the hospital, only staring at him with as much anger and disappointment as he could manage, hoping to let England know just how furious he was that his little brother had been such a reckless fool. As the younger nation was pretty out of it by then, the humans turned to Wales for a name. He stuck with his decision to act as if England was human, and quickly made up a name for him. "Arthur Kirkland," he answered.

* * *

It wasn't until he was waiting in the hospital while England was being treated, that Wales fully realised what had just happened. England had been using drugs for a long time, if that was the cause of his strange behaviour, pale complexion, weightloss and all such things. Half a year at the very least. "Dammit Arthur," he muttered under his breath, "why do all your actions end up selfdestructive like this?" His piracy back in the day hadn't been healthy, his wars against his brothers had left him only hatred and therefor depression for decade after decade, he had made plenty of other decisions that had ended badly for him one way or the other, and now his mingling with this punk culture had gotten him here. He really couldn't be trusted to take care of himself for a longer period of time. For a short while he could handle himself, he had proven that well enough. But he needed someone to check on him, see how he was doing, tell what to do and what not to do. Today had proven that much.

It wasn't long before he was told he could see him. He was a little reluctant at first, but then decided to just go to him. England was still looking rather dazed, but much more alert, and though he was clearly still in discomfort, he seemed to be doing much better. He sighed as Wales came in, and didn't look at him as his older brother sat down beside him. "So what do I do now?" he asked, more to himself than Wales. "If word comes out that _England_ is in hospital for drug use-"  
"Don't worry about that," Wales reassured him reluctantly, "I haven't told them who you are. You're on the patient list as Arthur Kirkland, not Arthur no-last-name-because-he's-bloody-England. And I'm sure the government will find a way to silence people if anyone here recognises you. Bribary and all that."  
"Th-thank you..."  
"And just what the hell were you thinking?!" Wales then snapped, glaring bloody murder at his younger brother. "How can you be so stupid? Tell me, Arthur, how long have you been doing this?"

England flinched. "P-please, Dylan, I'm really not feeling well right now..."  
"Good! Because they're not going to give you _any_ medication until the poison has been cleared from your blood. And when that happens, we both know you won't even _need_ it anymore. And even if they _would,_ I would tell them _not to. _You deserve the pain and discomfort a thousand times over for your utter stupidity!"  
"Please," England just said again, voice just above a whisper. "You can scold me all you want, but... but please not right now."  
Wales sighed, giving in. "Fine," he grumbled. "You just get some sleep and allow your body to cleanse itself. But trust me, when you wake up again, I'm going to give you hell." England nodded, stated that he didn't doubt he would, added that he was sorry, and then closed his eyes. Wales sat there for a few minutes longer, but when he decided England must be asleep already, he got up and slowly made his way out of the room. He still had a few calls to make -his brothers and the government should be aware of this. But just when he was about to leave, England's voice came in a soft whisper, "Dylan, I just wanted to say..."  
"Hm? Say what?"  
He thought he could see a tiny smile on his little brother's lips. "I really like the surname you picked for me."

"...Good."

* * *

**Well, I figured I had to describe how he got his last name at one point. This is my theory for it.**

**Well, Wales found out and is helping. Whether or not that will solve anything, you'll have to wait 'til the next chapter.  
And Ireland could at least still see what the problem was (after having been told over and over and over...and over...and over again...) so let's at least give him credit for that. But I have the solution to the Ireland-related problems firmly lodged in my mind (honestly, I'm so glad this is the last few days of school, 'cause certain scenes are literally stuck in my mind and won't leave... have to write them soon or I will have no concentration left for anything else!) soooo... it's going to get solved. Soon. Maybe not soon. We'll see.**

**Anyways, I hope you liked the chapter, and thank you so much for reading once again!**


	31. Chapter 31

**Hiya! I finished this chapter just in time before my camp starts (don't expect one next weekend though!)**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review once more!**

**And thank the heavens again! I've had two days of great news in a row -that's a record! First I hear I can take my English exams a year in advance, then the next day I get my blue belt in karate! Things are finally looking up (for me personally -the rest of the family... not so much I'm afraid) and that at least makes me happy~**

**This chapter, most likely, will not have that effect, though. Just like its predecessors. I just love the angst too much (and so must my readers if they've come this far)**

**Well, I hope you'll enjoy the chapter as much as I'm enjoying my days!**

* * *

Mere days after the incident with England and the drugs, all members of the family were gathered in London for a meeting with the Queen about it -even Ireland, as she had insisted he, as one of England's brothers, should hear what she had to say, as well. Only little Sealand wasn't there, having one of the staff members in the palace distract him while his father and uncles were busy. England was most uncomfortable being there right now, even though being in the halls he'd walked in since the year they had been built was usually comforting to him, and it felt as familiar as home. Right now it was the last place he wanted to be, this conversation the last thing he wanted to have. It was so bad that, even though they were all shocked and angry at what he'd been doing, even Ireland walked over to him at one point, gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and told him all would be fine, despite the scolding he would undoubtedly get.

The Queen was displeased, to say the very least. She looked at her nation with a scorching look of disappointment as he walked in and sat down as she told him to. She allowed herself to sigh before speaking, making England's feeling of shame even greater. She didn't often do that if it was official business they were discussing. "Arthur," she began, "as you are aware, it has come to my attention that you've recently engaged in undesirable activities." _What a nice way to put it,_ England thought grimly. _For this once, you don't have to be polite about it, you know. Just tell me I've been a disgrace to the country... to __**myself.**_ But why did the bad things always feel so damned good? That just wasn't fair. Of course they'd be so tempting that he'd... 'engage' in them. _But they shouldn't be,_ he told himself. _An what you did was as wrong as it gets. No excuses._

"Arthur, my dear, I know we like to pretend your mental state is better than it is," the Queen went on, thankfully not so overly-polite anymore, as the nations all found it very unfitting to the situation, but her choice of words was now enough to make England go red with shame and embarassment. "But unfortunately, it isn't exactly the best in the country. You've always had a tendency to... not always think things through, and make the wrong decisions. Fortunately, there has never been a problem we cannot solve, you only sometimes need... a little help in solving them. So I have decided you will be send to a clinic to help you with your addiction." England gave a tiny nod, eyes downcast. He could've seen that one coming. In fact, he had, but that didn't make it any better. He glanced sidewards at Scotland. They had discussed the possible outcomes of this day on the way here, and the Scot had said he was willing to take over some work and the care for Sealand while England was away. Wales, too, would get some extra work, and though the older brothers had decided against it, North had said that if it was to help England, he would take some, too. If they divided it between the three of them, the extra work couldn't possibly be a lot, after all.

"Also, I must unfortunately say," the Queen went on, and it was audible somewhere far away in her voice that she was reluctant to say this, "I have made another, much more difficult decision regarding this situation. Arthur, I know this has been a difficult issue for you from the start, and you've been struggling to handle it for nine years already. You have unfortunately proven yourself incapable of taking proper care of yourself, let alone others." England blinked, wondering what she was reffering to now, and where this was going. An ominous feeling in the back of his mind told him he already knew, and that he absolutely didn't _want _to know. He could only listen in shocked silence as the Queen spoke. "Therefore, I have decided that Sealand will no longer be under your care." England quickly bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything, but he did so with such force, he couldn't suppress a soft whimper, and he tasted blood a heartbeat later. The Queen blinked at him with pity in her gaze, carefully hidden as that emotion was. "You will not be allowed to see him until you have recovered, and until you have proven you can take care of yourself well enough to also be responsible for others, he will not be allowed to stay with you. However, no matter the outcome of your treatment in the clinic and whatever you do afterward, you will lose custody over Sealand permanently."

His heart stopped at that moment. He didn't feel it beating anymore, only being torn apart inside his chest. They were going to take his son away from him for good? For his drug abuse? No, he told himself, recalling the first years he'd had the boy. They were doing this for much more than the drugs, so much more. But it hurt more than he could've ever imagined. He looked at Scotland hopefully, and his older brother turned to the Queen. "Your Majesty, if I may," he began carefully, "does this mean Peter will come to live with one of us from now on? Personally I would be very willing to take him in-"  
But the Queen shook her head. "No, Allistair. I know how well you handle children and how much you would enjoy it, but if the boy stays within the family, who can guarantee he and Arthur will truly be seperated for as long as they need to? We would have to check in daily to make sure there's no contact between them whatsoever. And besides, it is high time the boy started spending more time in his own... 'land'. I have already contacted the supposed 'Prince' Bates about it, and he agrees that Sealand should from now on be raised on his platform, among his people."

England could only stare at her, fighting back his emotions. _Stiff upper lip, Arthur,_ he kept telling himself. _Come on, now is not the time nor the place to get emotional. _But how couldn't he? He would lose his son. He would lose his child because he had been so stubbornly stupid as to keep using drugs, even though he knew the consequences. And now it was over. And he'd done it himself. He caught a glimpse of Ireland staring at him with pity and understanding in his pale blue eyes, and England felt both angry at him for it and grateful that he wasn't the only one to have gone through something like this at the same time. Maybe he could talk to him... _no_. However he would deal with the loss of his son, he wouldn't do it like Ireland had. He had no idea what was the right way, but he knew that Ireland's way was the _wrong one._ He clenched his jaws tight and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the last words the Queen had to say. "You have today and tomorrow to say goodbye, gather your things and his, and in two days' time I expect you both to go your own way. You will be allowed to drop him off at his platform before you head to the clinic, but that's it. I'm very sorry, Arthur, dear. I've given it long, hard thought, and this is the best solution I could come up with. I do not want this any more than you do, but it is necessary. You must know that." England only nodded and said that he did, his voice hoarse and his throat tight.

The meeting was then soon finished, and Sealand was brought in as well. The boy went over to England immediately, staring up at him. "How did it go?" he asked. England's heart twisted as he looked down at his son, and he couldn't breathe anymore for a moment. Sealand must have noticed, because he tilted his head to one side, eyes slightly narrowed. "Papa?" he asked. "What's the matter, papa?" England only bit the inside of his lip for a moment, nibbling on it as he forced words to form in his mind and brought them slowly over his tongue as well. "C-come here for a moment, son," he said, his voice a barely audible whisper, no matter how hard he tried to make it sound strong as always as if nothing was wrong. Sealand blinked in confusion, then climbed onto his father's lap. The older nation immediately hugged him, burying his face in the boy's dark blonde hair, breathing his scent, feeling the familiar warmth of his body. "I love you, Peter," he choked out, unable to hold back his emotions any longer. He didn't care that it was in front of the Queen: he may be a nation, but he was also only human. "I love you so much, son..."  
"I love you too, papa," Sealand said, hugging England back, though hesitatingly, sensing that something was wrong. "Always? No matter what happens?" England asked him softly, and the young micro-nation nodded. "Of course! Forever and ever."

England was aware that all eyes were turned on him and his son now, but for a moment, he couldn't care less. He held Sealand as tightly as he could without breaking the boy's bones or choking him, and Sealand, knowing something must be very, very wrong by now, hugged him back with the same force. Eventually England simply really couldn't hold the countless emotions back anymore, and he cried, telling Sealand again and again how much he loved him, that he would never stop loving him, that he would always be his papa no matter what happened. He didn't want to lose his son. He couldn't. He simply, truly couldn't.  
But he would. And it was his own fault.

* * *

"Peter, please-"  
"NO!"  
"Peter, just listen to me-"  
"NO!"  
It had been going on like thar for some time now. England had tried to explain to the young boy what was going to happen and why, but it only resulted in the child crying his protest for minute after minute after minute. He wouldn't listen to a word anyone said, screaming that he didn't want to go, that he wanted to go where England went, that he wanted his father to accompany him to his platform out on the sea, anything to not be seperated. England, too, was on the verge of tears again trying to make him listen, to make him understand. "Why are you going away?" Sealand whined, sniffling.  
England blinked, and his brothers could all see how he was struggling to find the right words. For a moment there, they even wondered if he knew why himself -most drug addicts, when at this point already, didn't always really see the need, did they? But, much to their relief, England seemed to know exactly what was wrong and why. "Because I'm sick," he tried to explain softly, "and where I'm going, they can help me get better again."

Sealand blinked, accepting that answer, but not all of it just yet. "Then why can't I come with you?" he asked, voice raised to a wail. "I can help you get better, too!" But England shook his head, grateful that his son was finally willing to listen but dreading every word he had to say. "No, Peter, that's really not a place for children. You're not allowed to be there -and _I_ did not decide that, _they_ did, but I do agree with them." Sealand only stared at him, sniffling softly as he listened to the older nation. He didn't seem all that content with the answers he was getting to his questions, but he must've tired himself out screaming and crying, because he made absolutely no attempt to do that anymore. "When will you be back...?" he eventually asked in a tiny voice, staring wide-eyed at his father. Northern Ireland could see England hesitating, and he wished he could comfort the both of them right now.  
"I-in a few weeks... closer to a few months, I'm afraid. B-but, Peter," England stammered, fighting to get the words over his lips by now, "Peter, you... you won't come back here." The boy's eyes widened, and he started sniffling more again, tears welling up in his dark blue eyes. "T-the Queen has decided... that I'm not allowed to raise you anymore. You cannot live here with me anymore, Peter."  
"Why not?"  
England sighed. "Because I made some mistakes, son, some very _very_ bad mistakes. And this is my punishment."

For a moment, Sealand just stood there, staring at his father in pure shock. Then he started crying again, yelling at England. "It's your fault, it's your fault! If you hadn't made mistakes like that, I wouldn't have to go! You're a... you're a _jerk! _Stupid Jerk England!" He then spun around and ran off, leaving England to call after him only once, then stumble to the couch and collapse on it. Wales was the first to move, but it was Ireland who sat beside him only a heartbeat later, and the Welsh nation halted again, watching approvingly as Ireland tried his best to comfort his little brother. Scotland watched for a moment as well, then sighed. "I'll go talk to Peter..." he mumbled, turning around and following the young child. Northern Ireland hesitated for a moment, then sat down on England's other side, gently placing his hand on his arm. The older nation was doing his best to remain quiet, but he was crying softly, his eyes shut tight and tears streaming down his face.

"It'll be okay, Arthur," Ireland tried to soothe him in a soft voice. "It's hard, trust me, I know, but you'll make it through, and so will he. You won't be seperated forever -soon enough, you'll be able to see him again. And I'm sure that one day we'll be able to convince the Queen and Bates to give you custody over him again." But England shook his head, mumbling that Ireland had no idea what this was like. "At least you saw Coineach again," he argued. Northern Ireland, much to his own surprise, didn't feel the usual stab of anger or regret at being considered Ireland's son even if just for a moment. In fact, he felt grateful. At least the time he and Ireland had had before this entire mess started had been longer and better than what England and Sealand had, and Ireland _had_ been a great father once, even if North didn't know it back then. England had improved a lot, he had turned into a _good_ parent, but by far not good enough. Otherwise this wouldn't have happened.

"I didn't see Coineach for a year, remember?" Ireland reminded his younger brother gently. "You and Peter will not be seperated for so long -not unless you make it so. If you work hard to recover, Arthur, you will be reunited again before you know it." At last England nodded, and Ireland put an arm around him comfortingly. North gave him a soft reassuring squeeze in the arm, then saw how much Wales wanted to help his little brother now, too, and got up again, allowing his older brother to take his place. He quietly slid upstairs and tiptoed over to Sealand's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open just enough to allow him to see what was going on inside. His nephew was lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow as he cried. Scotland said beside him, softly stroking his hair and whispering words of comfort to him too soft for North to hear. But whatever he said, it seemed to be working, as the boy got graduadly quieter. Seeing how gentle he was with the child, how caring and comforting, Northern Ireland thought not for the first time that Sealand should have been _his_ son instead. Then, at least, he would've had the perfect father right from the start, and one he wouldn't have been seperated from now. He had always thought Sealand was more lucky than him, oblivious of the hardships his family went through and spared from them himself, but he knew now that he was wrong. Even this young boy had had more than his fair share of pain and suffering, and he was only nine years old. _I was already seventeen when everything went downhill._ For just a moment then, he didn't doubt that Sealand's life was even worse than his. And right then, he was just so angry at England, but even more so at the Queen. He understood the decision, but she had no right to destroy this broken family even more.

* * *

The goodbye between England and Sealand was quick after that, since the young boy didn't want anything to do with his father anymore. After that, Scotland checked on him weekly in person, every other day through telephone. They also called England weekly, since they weren't allowed to actually visit him. He was doing fine the first week, the second week he was getting rather touchy, the third... "I can't take this!" he complained. "Daily therapy, _fine_, but why can't they give me _one single shot?_ It's been a month, and do you know how hard-"  
"Artie," Wales sighed then, "they won't give you anything because they're trying to get you off it."  
"But it's not _fair!_" England then wailed, whining like a teenager in full-blown puberty would, and Wales guessed it was withdrawl symptoms talking to him now rather than his little brother. "I'm still not over losing Peter and they won't give me _anything _to make it easier! I need something to take my mind off it, I really need it!" Disappointment tore at Wales' heart as he listened. How had his dear little brother ever sunk this deep? England kept on going for a little while, and suddenly, Wales felt a hand on his shoulder. Only when he looked over his shoulder to see Ireland standing behind him, did he realise the tears dripping down from his jaw. Ireland silently held out his other hand, and Wales understood, giving the phone to him instead. "Artie," he said flatly, "would you please shut up for a moment?" He paused as England said something, and he sighed. "Yes. Why? Am I not allowed to visit my little brothers anymore? But you listen to me now, Arthur," he went on, voice growing hard. "You want to recover, don't you? So you can see Peter again?" A short pause. "That's what I thought. Then stop whining and show that you can do this. I know you feel awful -my cutting was as much an addiction back in the day as drugs is for you now. I know how hard it is to stop, but you _have to do it._ For your sake, for Peter's, for all of us. And think about your people: you don't want to let them down." Something flashed in Ireland's eyes as he said this, and Wales gave the hand still positioned on his shoulder a soft, reassuring squeeze. "Trust me, I know," Ireland went on. "So fight this, Arthur. You're a knight, a pirate, a soldier... you've been all those things. It shows just how tough you are. Surely you can fight a simple addiction? Right, so I thought." A light came back in Ireland's pale blue eyes now, and he smiled warmly at whatever England said to him now. "Well done, Arthur. I'm proud of you, you know... Say that to Dylan as well, would you? Goodbye, then. Keep going." He then handed Wales the phone again, and stunned, he took it.

England was in the middle of a sentence when Wales placed the phone to his ear, but he still caught the most important part. "-so sorry, Dylan. I shouldn't have said that. I-I know I have to stop, it's just... _so hard_. B-but I will! I promise, I will!"  
Wales smiled, tears pricking in his eyes again, but of relief now. "I don't doubt that, Arthur."  
"I just need to find something else -something _healthy_\- to do what drugs did for me... a replacement. Or so I'm told every day." He paused, and Wales could hear a different voice on the background. Then England's voice came again, and the older nation was very glad to hear him sound like himself again. Ireland's words really worked on him. "I have to go now -therapy again." He sighed, sounding a little annoyed, but not reluctant to go. "They want to see what writing will do for me next -I already told them that's your field, but... I'll talk to you later, won't I? Bye, Dylan."  
Wales smiled, softly said goodbye as well, reassured now that his little brother would be alright again. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but he would be alright again. After he'd put down the phone again, he turned to Ireland, the smile still on his lips. "I didn't know you were so good at dealing with _Athur's_ problems," he said. "C-considering the two of you... well, you know."

Ireland just shrugged. "I think," he said softly, sighing as he looked away. He seemed a little reluctant to say this right now -or ever for that matter- but after a short pause, he decided to just say it, anyway. "I think he and I are more alike personality-wise than we like to admit." Wales smirked as Ireland said this, the smirk growing wider with every word his older brother said after that. "I mean, we're both prone to making stupid mistakes, ruining other people's lives in doing so, getting depressed and being selfdestructive and refusing to get help until it's too late. And I suppose... I used some words I should've said to myself long ago. They've been in my mind for years and years, they just weren't directed at Artie at first. And..." He trailed off as he turned back to look at Wales, and saw the huge smirk on his face and his twinkling green eyes. Confused, he raised one eyebrow. "Why are you smiling like that?"  
"Did it really take you until _now _to realise how similar you and Artie are?"  
"...Well..." Ireland trailed off again as Wales began to chuckle, slowly shaking his head he turned and walked away. He stared after him for a moment, and only after several seconds realised what he'd just said. "B-b-but Arthur and I aren't alike in any other way!" he spluttered quickly, running after Wales to catch up with him. "O-only that we make mistakes like these -_nothing else!_" Wales only kept laughing, nodding and choking out a sarcastic "oh, suuuure, if you say so!" When Ireland then gave him a playful smack on the back of his head with a quick "shut up!", he faced his older brother, glaring, but his eyes shining with joy. "Let's take this duel outside, brother," he said in a threatening voice. "If I see your fighting style is like Arthur's as well -and I would know, since we trained a lot back in the late 16th to the 17th century- _you're _cooking dinner tonight!" He huffed and smirked. "And if you fight anything like Artie, it means I'll win!"  
"And if I win?"  
"Then it's my turn to cook, idiot."

The fight lasted less than ten minutes, and ended with Wales sitting on top of his older brother. Ireland lay on his side, both his arms pressed to the ground and held there by only one of Wales' hands, his legs held in place by his younger brother's, Wales' other hand pressed to his neck, thumb on his throat, ready to press it shut if this were a real fight. He twisted and struggled to free himself, and though it wasn't too hard to move his legs, his arms were fixed in place. He then burst out laughing. "How the hell did you get so strong?" he choked out, and Wales' grip slackened as he too softly started laughing. "Rolling around in a wheelchair for decades," he reminded Ireland. "It works miracles for your arms, and if you decide to keep working out just a little to keep them that strong..." He shrugged, and Ireland scoffed.  
"I should've never accidentally shot you!" he complained, wriggling free now that Wales had nearly let go of him again. "Do you know what it feels like to be beaten by your little brother?" He sat up, and the two stared at each other for a moment longer as their laughter died away slowly. And along with the laughter died some of the joy from Wales' eyes, and Ireland sighed softly. "You miss him, don't you?" Wales nodded slowly, sighing as well, much deeper than Ireland had. "I just want my little brother back..." he whispered, "my actual little brother, not this... _this._"  
"So do I," the older nation answered, getting up and pulling Wales to his feet as well. "But instead of constantly worrying over him, let's try to enjoy ourselves like we did just now as much as we can. He's in a good place, surrounded by people who can help him. He'll be fine, and back before you know it." He then ruffled his little brother's hair with the brightest smile he could manage. "But meanwhile, you can start imagining what you want me to cook tonight!"

* * *

**Well, that's it for now. I'll try to make some bright moments before all hell breaks loose (because it hasn't yet)**

**Aahhh, and little Sealand. This is how the "Jerk England!" phase started. Who wouldn't be like that in his situation (considering his age (+/- 5 yrs))?**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy next week~!**


	32. Chapter 32

**Hi, I'm back! It's been two weeks... and all I can write is this filler -_-'**

**But from here on, I have everything planned out, almost down to the word, and summer holidays began, so it should be longer and quicker again from now on.**

**And suddenly I got so many reviews! Crossfire, as per usual, thanks for the review! And graciekit99, thank you too for the reviews! And bookdragonslayer for the follow and favourite... and did I miss anyone? I hope not!**

**Well, it's a filler, but the next should come soon! So I hope you'll enjoy this for the time being.**

* * *

Two months. He'd been in that blasted clinic for two entire months now.  
England lay on his back in the grass, eyes closed, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sunrays. Meanwhile he was softly singing some of the things he'd written as part of therapy, trying to find a proper melody for it to kill time. He was bored out of his mind with nothing to do, and even after ten weeks of being clean, having taken not even a single pill for anything, he felt awful. His mind was constantly with his son, and during every therapy session he was brought back to all the things he'd done in life -things he could never say out loud. He was here as Wales had named him in the hospital over two months ago. Here he was Arthur Kirkland, an ordinary human, not England. And no one had to know who he was. No one could know.

"Your life must've been shit, hm?" a voice suddenly commented beside him, and startled, he opened his eyes and fell silent. A man sat beside him, looking to be in his late twenties, around Ireland's physical age. He was another patient here, and had been there for as long as England had been: he'd seen him a few times, but he never talked much with others here. England just blinked at him, confused by his question. The man grinned. "I take it you wrote those lyrics yourself here?" The nation only nodded, mumbling softly that he had. "You cannot come up with heavy stuff like that if you haven't felt all those emotions yourself once. Well, at least your making good use of the therapy they give here: it's not just to get you off your addictions, it's also to fix whatever's wrong with your mind. And writing all that shit down really helps, dunnit?"

England blinked slowly, getting up and sitting beside the man then. "I suppose it does," he sighed, shivering for a moment despite the warm weather. He felt so miserable. He just wanted his brothers back, he wanted Sealand back, he wanted peace of mind again like he hadn't had all this century. Like he hadn't had all his life, in fact. "Listen," the human then said, looking sideways at him, "you should really turn that into a song when you get out of here. It sounds great, and though it's heavy stuff as I said, many people would listen to it for sure." This surprised England. Was he being told he should sing? Seriously? Nations didn't do those kinds of things -it was ridiculous to even think about. "You have the voice for it, too, for all I could tell from your mumbling just now," the human went on, not paying the nation's confused gaze any mind. "It would be perfect for you, I'm sure. You'll have something to give those crappy emotions a place, something to deal with them with, and a source of income at the same time."  
"And how would you know?" England then asked, narrowing his eyes. The human smiled at him, though his dark eyes didn't join in the smile. "I used to be in the music business myself," he answered. "Got kicked out of the band when I started doing drugs, but I'm clean now. My guitar helps me channel emotions, and I'm planning to use it for the rest of my life. That's the therapy that worked best for me here, and I've decided I'll never stop with the therapy even when I'm allowed to go in two weeks from now. Only I'll give it to myself instead by playing music. You seem like the type of guy that would work on as well." He smiled wider then, and finally his eyes lit up a bit as well. "Tell you what, you give me some of those lyrics, and I'll find a nice melody on my guitar to go with them. I know another guy here who plays the bass. It's not all the instruments you'll need, but it's a start. How about it?"

England hesitated. Nations didn't do music, not like that. They just didn't. Austria for one was a musical genius, but not even he actually performed. _Who said anything about performing?_ he then said to himself. _This will just be me and two other guys creating a song -no performances, none of that crap. Totally legal._ He then made up his mind, and nodded. "Sure. When shall we start?"

* * *

Wales and Northern Ireland were at the UN meeting together, of which one of the main points of discussion would be the situation in the Middle East. It was a difficult situation of which North was ashamed to say the United Kingdom was partly to blame. He himself had never spent much time on it, however, having been too young when it started, in the middle of WWII when he was old enough, spending more time on recovering from that and his education afterward, and then the mess in his own country had started. He did, however, know very well that the Arabic countries were denying western countries oil if they kept supporting Israel, and many were panicking because of it. Their economies would practically collapse without that oil. The meetings now were meant to find a solution to all that. And with a bit of luck, the entire war as well. Northern Ireland had huffed when he'd heard that, already convinced that a solution would never come. He could recognize a lost cause when he saw one by now, and this mess was as near to being cleaned up as his own was.  
Probably never.

But he couldn't help feeling bad for Israel. She was even younger than him, and had gone through war from the moment she'd been born. That, and now nations that had once supported her were beginning to turn their backs on her one by one, either for the oil or because they really thought she was the wrongdoer. Maybe he could talk to her sometime while they were here. After all, they were in similar situations as far as never-ending battle went. He knew he wanted contact with other nations, kind contact without too many talk of troubles, though. He was pretty sure she'd prefer that, too, so he wouldn't talk to her about all that unless she wanted it._ And if she refuses to talk to me altogether,_ he decided, _then that's her loss._ It would also be one of his first times he'd make contact with other, non-European nations without any of his brothers, and that thought was exciting. So far he had still been most comfortable around other Europeans, as those were the nations he saw most, but he still hadn't forgotten what Scotland had told him nearly 40 years ago. _One day you will meet every nation on this planet_. This would be the first step he'd make on his own, then.

Only it didn't exactly turn out like that. "Hey there, Israel!" he greeted the younger nation, smiling a bit as he approached her, trying to look as sympathetic as he could. She turned around to face him, not looking impressed. Only her indifference would've been enough for him to turn aroun and leave, but he was determined to get to know more nations. And peers were easier than adults, he figured. "So, ehm," he stammered, "how have you been doing with recent things...?"  
"Why would you care?"  
Internally, North was already cursing at her, but he kept up the happy exterior to the best of his abilities. "Just... to talk? Being friendly?"  
Israel huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't need friendliness," she declared, "and especially not from a stupid little crybaby like you."  
"W-what?" North spluttered, showing his frustration and anger clearly now. "I'm older than you, and taller at that, so calling me 'little' is out of the question! How the hell did you think I was stupid if you've only just met me a few seconds ago? And _what the fuck _is that crap about me being a _crybaby?_" he demanded angrily. Israel only grinned at him, her dark eyes twinkling with joy at being able to aggravate him so easily.  
"Well," she said with a shrug, "you cried during one of these meetings once, didn't you? I eard all about it."

Suddenly North realised what she was referring to, and he answered defensively: "That's not fair! There was a bomb in Belfast -a _huge_ bomb- and it hurt, it hurt a lot! And besides, clenching your jaws and letting one or two tears slip can hardly be described as _crying._ What do you know, anyway?"  
"About bombs? Battle? Pain?" she asked plainly. "Plenty, I suppose. Oh, and how I got to the conclusion you're stupid: it's because you're trying so hard to be friendly with everyone. Probably think you need other nations to be strong, don't you? Then again, of course you would. You're hardly worth being called a nation: you would be nothing without your big brothers." She smirked, watching in delight as North got angrier with the second. He just about ready to hit her now, and hard at that. He hoped he could knock out a few teeth -but then again, she was so young, she probably had to lose a few yet, anyway. So doing that wouldn't be any fun.  
"You wouldn't even _exist_ without my brothers," he reminded her, gritting his teeth, his shoulders tense. "And without _me._"

She only had to say one more word for him to turn around and stomp away, heading back to where he'd left Wales. To his relief, the older nation was still there, talking to Australia. When he saw his little brother's grim expression, he stopped his conversation for a moment, and the southern cousin of the family only laughed. "What happened to ya, little guy?" he asked him between his laughter. "Ya look like a lil' dark cloud, about to rain on us!" North only muttered that Israel was a mean little kid, and Wales patted his head, which he backed away from. If that girl was still watching, he didn't want to give her another reason to make fun of him. "She's just trying to look independent and strong, Coineach," the older British nation reassured him. "Don't mind her. Maybe she'd be nicer if there weren't so many nations she feels she has to prove herself to around."  
"Since when does 'independent and strong' equal 'downright bitch'?" was all North muttered, sighing then. Wales was probably right. But he was not going to give her another chance.

"But hey," Australia then said to Wales, apparently trying to resume their earlier conversation, "the little Kiwi and I were wondering if we could come over to your islands again sometime." Wales and Northern Ireland blinked at him for a moment, confused and surprised. 'Kiwi' was Australia's nickname for his younger brother, New Zealand. And the two did not get along. On occassion they were even worse than England and Ireland. "Uh, sure," Wales stammered. "I hardly think the others would mind. B-but are you sure you want to come _together_?" Australia nodded, though not too enthusiastically, saying that he and New Zealand would have to try someday. Those words hit close to home to North, and Wales as well. The five of them had been trying for so long...  
"Of course," Australia went on, "it will be a while before we come over for a visit. It's far away, after all, and it would be a shame if we had to leave again after a few days. So maybe when we're all not so busy anymore." Wales laughed at this, saying he could wait an eternity, then. North chuckled also, even though it actually wasn't a laughing matter. That they were busy was only due to a few certain things, after all: the Middle East, the tensions between Russia and the USA, and the ongoing battle between catholics and protestants in Northern Ireland himself. If all those things would end, their lives would be normal once again. _Nah_, North thought without any disappointment or anger in his thoughts for once,_ they'll never be normal. Never have been, never will be._ It would be nice, though.

Wales quickly checked his watch, sighing. "Well, it's time to go: the meeting will be starting shortly." He looked at his younger cousin and little brother. "Coming, Coineach, Michael?" They both nodded and silently followed him to the conference room.

* * *

"Cearul!" Scotland called as he stumbled into his livingroom, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead where he'd just bumped into the wall. It was three days after the UN meetings, and Ireland had decided to stay with his younger brother for just a few days before returning home to the pile of work waiting for him. Scotland had gladly accepted, as now he'd had his favourite drinking buddy with him yesterday evening, a Saturday. And now, on this Sunday morning, he'd have his favourite hangover buddy as well. "Dammit, Cearul, have ye seen my glasses?"  
"They are in the exact same spot where ye tossed 'em off yesterday night, lil' brother," Ireland answered with a grunt. "No, I don't know _where_ that is," he added when the Scot asked him. "I only know they didn't sprout legs and feet and walked off when ye threw 'em away."  
Scoffing, Scotland flopped down onto the couch beside his older brother -accidentally landing on top of him before repostitioning himself- and muttered, "I can't see a single bloody fuck."  
"And I feel sick. Al, we did it again..." Ireland sighed, turning onto his side, facing away from his younger brother. Scotland only chuckled, the soft chuckles slowly turning into laughter until Ireland joined in. "We'll never learn, will we?" he asked, and Scotland answered: "Alcohol? No, never."

They laughed for a moment longer, then Scotland abruptly stopped. "Okay, quiet now," he ordered his brother, wincing. "I have a bloody headache..." Ireland sighed and patted him on the shoulder, saying he would go look for his little brother's glasses, then. But when he got up he staggered for a moment, and with a grimace added he first had some business to attend to for himself, however, before taking a detour to the bathroom. Scotland stared after him, following the blur he knew was his brother with his gaze until he disappeared from sight. They would never, ever learn how to use alcohol the right way, without getting so drunk everytime and so hungover. But at least in their headache and nausea-induced misery they had plenty of fun. when he saw the Ireland-blur stagger back into the room, turning right into the dining section of the livingroom, he heard a loud crack when Ireland had taken only a few steps. "Al...?" the Irishman begun tentatively, and the Scot already closed his eyes with a deep sigh. "I found your glasses... Do you have a spare?"  
"That was my spare. The new one is still being made, not done yet."  
Ireland laughed again nervously. "W-well, at least you see more than when you were blind, right? Always better than nothing." Scotland sighed and nodded, unable to deny the truth in that. Though he did complain a lot about how unbelievably annoying life would be for the next three days, before he could get his new glasses. But soon enough, when their hangovers worn off a bit more, they enjoyed their day again before Ireland left for Dublin that afternoon -having to make a stop in Cardiff for one night if he didn't want to arrive at night. But Wales was okay with that, and so was North, who stayed with his older brother for the time being.

* * *

Six weeks later, England came home again. He had a little four-man band now, just for fun and distraction, though the fourth member wasn't out of the clinic yet. His brothers were just pleased that he'd finally found what he needed to stay off the drugs, though not all of them trusted him quite yet. Especially not since three of the band members, including him, were ex-addicts. But they were... pretty good. Though they needed some time to get used to their punkrock style, the entire family was soon a fan. And eventually, even the government gave him permission to continue doing this -so long as it didn't turn into a job. "You're a nation," they reminded him, "and you have responsibilities. Whatever you do, do not forget them." England just agreed and promised he would. Soon after, the little group had their first real performance in a local pub. And a few weeks later, another.

England was careful enough to still have enough time for his life as a nation and the work that came with it, so thus far, everything was fine. He was soon allowed contact with Sealand again as well, but the little boy hadn't forgiven him yet. The conversation turned into a quick, 'how are you?' 'fine, and you?' conversation, more like acquaintances talking than father and son. It left England hurt, but he hadn't expected any better.

But all in all, life was good. As good as it would ever be, they had decided together, and they contented themselves with it. The year ended with peace within the family, a bad economy and ongoing battle in Northern Ireland. But twisted as that was, they were all getting used to those things now. They let go of the hope that peace would be restored before the end of the decade, and they were proven right when, 3 years later, 1980 came and the Troubles were still on.  
By then, England and Sealand had -though rarely- contact again without fighting. The boy hadn't forgiven him yet, and probably never would. England could still get angry if his son refered to him as 'Jerk England', which seemed to be a habit by now, but he never complained. So long as they spoke to each other again, it was alright.  
Northern Ireland had grown a little taller again for the first time in years, and looked just a bit more mature overall. The family was now willing to say his physical age was 14. He still spent most of his time living with his brothers, but also lived on his own a lot more than in the years before. He was becoming more independent, which was a great thing. It made him feel better himself as well as his brothers, knowing their youngest brother could look after himself well enough not to have to worry about him all the time. Now that the Troubles had lasted for 12 years, they also accepted that as a constant presence. They hardly really remembered what it had been like before all this -mostly because to them, it had begun as far back as 1921, not 1968.  
Ireland was doing better as well. Bothered by his people but not influenced by them so much anymore when it came to personal matters.

It wasn't until halfway through 1980 that he began to doubt his mental state again.

Ireland was taking a stroll through Ballinhassig to clear his mind again after a long afternoon of working, just enjoying the warm spring sun and the fresh air. He watched the people pass him by, his people, knowing that finally, he was a nation deserving of them again. He worked hard to right every wrong he did, to live up to all expectations his people could have of him, to do every task the government gave him. He would be more of a nation and less of a person again, like he always had been and always should be.  
Suddenly a woman walking on the other side of the street caught his eye, and he couldn't help stopping to stare at her. Golden hair flowing in the soft breeze, gentle features and warm emerald eyes, of which he could see the bright colour even from this distance. _Dammit._ He stared at her until she disappeared from sight, and then he had to force himself to not go after her. _Mom?_ It was an exact copy of his mother. But that couldn't be -she never came to him outside dreams, and he was most definitely awake now.

But two months later, he saw her again while simply shopping for groceries. And six weeks after that, driving past her and only catching a glimpse of her. He saw her so often and in so many different places, he knew it couldn't simply be a human that looked like her.  
It was her. And somehow she was trying to tell him something by appearing like that, he knew it.  
And by November, he finally got a clearer idea of what that message was. It was around midnight, and he was getting ready to end the day and go to bed. Stepping out from under the shower, he brushed his teeth quickly, turned around -and stopped dead. There she was again, only a meter away, staring at him intently. Her gaze was sad but filled with a certain cold that sent shivers down his spine. For the first time ever, he got scared at seeing his very own mother. He couldn't breathe for the second that he saw her, a second that lasted minutes to him, as he stood there, shivering and afraid. "Go away," he choked out eventually, his voice barely audible. "Go away, please..."  
She blinked at him, the sadness in her eyes terrified him most of all.

Then she was gone, and for a moment he doubted he'd even seen her. He quickly went to his bed, curling up under the sheets, trying to find warmth again in the cold room. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come to him. _Please,_ he begged his dead mother. _Please, just leave me alone._

He still didn't know what she was trying to tell him, only that it was something to be feared. And he didn't want to know.

* * *

**Hehe... take a guess.**

**Well! That's it for now, I hope you liked it a bit! And the next chapter should be ready soon!**


	33. Chapter 33

**So, a longer chapter again.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review! Ha, I feel so happy~ I mean, to have written something you _didn't_ understand immediately... that must be a first! Or at least the first time in a while.  
My camp was fun, but exhausting. Cycling round and about 270 km in one week isn't fun, especially combined with all the other things we had to do.  
And of course the heatwave affected me, too! Dear lord, I don't remember it ever having been this warm over here! At least it's mostly passed now, right?**

**Actually, the heat was one of the reasons I didn't update as quickly as I wanted to last week. I just couldn't bring myself to move, let alone grab my laptop and write.**

**Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter!**

* * *

England was at the UN meeting of 1981 together with Northern Ireland, a meeting that was well under way for the day. Currently speaking was West Germany, as he was becoming even more of a major country in Europe concerning the economy, and most nations had come to respect him again for his political and economical power. East Germany, who was also at these meetings nowadays, spoke a lot less than his younger brother did. He was usually carefully watched by Russia, and like with most of the members of the Soviet Union, Russia spoke for him most of the time. He didn't know how much contact East and West had here, if any at all, which he seriously doubted. He glanced sidewards to where the former Prussian sat as he listened to West. He looked severely unhappy, but healthy enough, considering his pale complexion was normal for him. _At least __**some**__ good news I can take home,_ he thought to himself._ Allistair will be delighted to know he's doing well... enough._  
Suddenly he heard a change in West Germany's voice, and he noted in silence that the European nation had asked Ireland something about his current economical state, seeing as he was speaking about Europe's economy and how it was affected by the troubles in the Middle East. And Ireland hadn't answered. Curious, England leaned forward a bit to be able to look down at where Ireland sat, only to see his older brother was tense all over, not responding to anything. "Ireland?" West Germany asked, sounding worried rather than annoyed by now. "Ireland, are you listening?" The old nation started as if he were jolted awake then, and stammered an apology. England wished he could see his face, just so he could properly see what was wrong with his brother -because if anything was clear, it was that _something _was wrong. "Is anyzhing zhe matter, Ireland?" West then asked him. England blinked in surprise, but remained silent. It was rare for the young German to stop his speeches here for anything. Ireland must look like he was on his deathbed, England thought, for West to react like this. Ireland answered something too soft for England to hear, and after some hesitation, West suggested: "Perhaps you should go for a moment, take a break." He then looked around the conference room. "If zhat is okay vith zhe ozhers," he added quickly. Several other nations nodded or mumbled their approval, and that was enough for both West and Ireland.  
"T-thank you... I'll be back soon, I promise," Ireland said quickly, getting up and swiftly leaving the conference room. England, like many others, stared at him as he walked past, shocked at how pale he looked and at the clear distress in his eyes. He leaned over to Northern Ireland, who was also staring at their brother, and whispered: "Go after him, will you? He really doesn't look good... and I can handle this on my own, don't worry." But North nibbled on his lip for a moment, asking England to go instead: he didn't like how Ireland was acting, and he had no idea what to do with it. So England, quickly apologizing to the rest of the world, left the room as well and followed his brother.

"Cearul?" he called out to his brother, only Ireland didn't seem to notice him quite yet. The older nation was leaning against a wall, face turned away from England once again, trembling as he muttered something to himself. "Just go," he said in a hushed voice, and for a moment England thought he _had _noticed him and was speaking to him, but that didn't seem to be the case. "Please... please just leave me alone..." Unease spread through England's heart. Who was he talking to? He reached out to Ireland as the latter was just in the middle of another such sentence, and gently placed his hand on his shoulder. The distressed nation jumped in shock at this sudden touch and yelped in fear. His eyes widened when he saw England, but a heartbeat later he calmed down again. "A-Arthur...?" he stammered, "w-what are you doing here? Damn, you look alike," he added in a whisper, barely louder than even his breath, but England still heard it. He narrowed his eyes curiously, but decided not to ask about that -yet.  
"Cearul, are you sick or something?" he then asked instead, scanning his brother quickly with his gaze. "You don't look too good."  
But Ireland shook his head. "I'm... rather fine. Really." When England didn't look convinced, he sighed. "_Really._ I'm... I'm just not feeling so well, but it's not like I'm sick, I swear. At least I don't think I am." England was silent for a moment, inspecting him again. He still looked twitchy and frightened, trembling, the same look of unease and distress in his eyes as earlier. "Then what is wrong?" he asked his older brother. "Honestly, Cearul, you look like you've just seen a ghost." Something flashed in Ireland's eyes at that, intensifying the distress in his gaze almost tenfold._ What? Does he seriously think he has?_ England wondered, but instead of asking his brother more about it, he just sighed. "Look, I'd better get back to the meeting," he said. Now wasn't the time to ask Ireland what frightened him so, not when it was still so fresh mere words could practically bring him back into his shocked state. Ireland only nodded and said he would come again, too, but England shook his head and blocked his way. "Cearul, you're not well," he told him. "If it's not physical, then it's mental, but you're _not well._ Just take your time to recover from... whatever this is. Go to your hotel, perhaps, call it a day. I'll tell them you're ill."

Ireland didn't respond again, staring at the floor. England was just about to repeat what he'd said, thinking that maybe the Irishman hadn't even listened to him, but then Ireland looked up again. "I-I'll just wait here," he stammered. "If it's okay with you... I'd like to come with you and Coineach instead..." This surprised England, but he said nothing as his brother added, "I'd really rather not be alone right now..." England just stared at him for a moment, wondering again what was wrong and getting more worried with the second now, then nodded, saying that he was welcome. He finished by saying again that his brother should just take a moment of rest to calm down again, then headed back.

Once in the conference room again, he was bombarded with questions. "Is Ireland coming back?" someone asked, and another demanded, "what's wrong with him?" Someone else then asked if he was sick, to which another nation added, "is it the economy? Is it that bad?" England just shook his head and answered loud enough for the entire world gathered there to hear, "I don't know what's wrong with him exactly, but he's clearly not well, and that should be enough. I've told him not to bother coming back for today -perhaps he'll be here again tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm sure it's not the economy," he added with a grin. "So it's nothing contagious."  
"He looked scared of something," someone then stated, and England recognized the voice of New Zealand. Canada, a few seats away from him, nodded. "Terrified, more like it," he added softly to what the island had said.  
England sighed in relief when Japan, who was speaking now, said soothingly, "people, it's understandable that you're all worried, but this really doesn't concern any of us. Let's just focus on the meeting and let Ireland's business be his own, _onegai shimasu._" This seemed to quiet down the world again, though there were still a few confused or worried mumbles in the room. At least they left England alone again, so he could take his place beside North again. The boy leaned over to him and asked in a whisper: "So what _is _wrong with him?" England just shrugged and answered that he really didn't know. "But let's just say Matthew and Liam had a point," he added, "and that we have company for the rest of today and tonight." Northern Ireland only nodded, remaining quiet again after that. He and England just focused on the meeting again, North making some notes on certain things for Ireland to read later, but England remained worried throughout it all.

When the meeting finally ended, he tried to get out of the conference room as quickly as he could, hoping he'd be the first to reach Ireland, but some nations still beat him to it. Most of them just walked by, some glancing at him in curiosity, worry or pity or a mix of the three, but a few gathered around him, pestering him with questions. The old nation looked as reluctant to tell any of them as he had England, and just told them he simply didn't feel well. He looked utterly relieved when England pushed his way through the small crowd surrounding him, told the other nations not to bother them anymore, and pulled Ireland along, away from them. "So how are you feeling now?" he asked quickly as they made their way down the hall to where North was waiting for them. "Any better? Or still the same?"  
"A-a little better, I suppose," was Ireland's shaky answer. England scowled. He sounded just as bad as before, if not worse. But once again, he said nothing. They joined North and quickly made their way out of the building -or attempted to.

By the time they reached the main hall, a few nations were gathered in a small group again, acting completely different from how they had around Ireland. "Well, who are you, anyway?" Hungary asked, sounding confused. England couldn't hear the answer, but another nation -Brasil- answered to that, "a nation? A little thing like you?" There was a protest to this, louder than before, and with a shiver, England recognized the voice. "Peter!" he exclaimed, running over to him and leaving his two Irish brothers behind for a moment. Much like he had with the small crowd around Ireland, he pushed his way through the nations standing around Sealand, stopping in front of the boy and staring down at him in surprise and confusion. "Peter, what are you doing here?"  
"You know this kid?" Brasil asked, and Hungary's eyes began to twinkle with joy as she realised, "oh! He must be your child, then?"  
England only gave a quick nod and knelt down in front of Sealand, who glared at him. "Peter," he asked again, "how did you even get here?" The boy huffed and didn't answer. "Please, son, just answer me," England begged him then. "Why are you here, and how did you get here?" Sealand still didn't answer immediately, sticking out his tongue to his father, still glaring. "I'm a nation!" he declared then. "I'm a nation and I deserve to be here! I'm going to join the meetings!" England just sighed and began explaining to him that he couldn't, that he wasn't completely a nation, but the boy just yelled, "shut up, Jerk England!" And then, with a strong kick to his father's stomach, he turned and ran away.  
"Oh! England, are you alright?" Hungary asked immediately, leaning down to help him, but he shook his head as he gasped for breath, saying that he was fine. Brasil just laughed for a moment. "Wow, you must be the world's greatest father," she said mockingly. "He's been raised perfectly!" England sent the nation a scorching glare, but didn't get the chance to say anything as Ireland suddenly appeared behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder much like his little brother had done for him earlier. The two looked at each other for a moment, then England sighed, feeling miserable. "Can this day get any worse?" he asked in a whisper.  
Thankfully, Hungary seemed to be in a good mood. "You know what," she suggested, "I'll go talk to him. He can come with me for today, if he doesn't want to be with you. And I could also take him back home when the meetings are finished in a few days." England considered this for a moment, then nodded and thanked her. She just smiled, turned to Ireland for a moment saying she hoped he'd feel better again soon, and then went after Sealand. Brasil just stared after her, sighed and walked away without a word.  
"Let's just go home," Northern Ireland then said, looking at his two older brothers. "I think none of us still want to be here." They all both agreed, and the trio quickly left for their hotel again.

* * *

"Well," Northern Ireland began softly when he and his two brothers arrived in their room, "we only have two beds, unfortunately."  
"No problem," Ireland sighed, sitting down on one of the chairs. "I'm probably not going to get much sleep, anyway." Northern Ireland wanted to comment on that, but England beat him to it, standing in front of his older brother and forcing him to look him in the eyes. "You look like shit, Cearul," he stated. "When's the last time you've slept?"  
Ireland shrugged. "I don't know... 'bout 30 to 35 hours ago, I think." England sighed, then asked him when the last time was he'd had a _decent_ night. Ireland hesitated for a moment. "Well..." he mumbled, "I think... ten weeks or more."  
"Right, then it's settled," England declared, straightening himself. "Ireland, go get ready to sleep _right now._ You'll get my bed, Coineach and I will wake you in roughly 90 minutes for dinner, and then you'll sleep again. You unfortunately cannot be replaced at the meetings tomorrow like us UK members can, so get some rest already." Ireland hesitated for a moment, but must've realised England wouldn't give him a choice. He sighed, thanked his little brother and headed to the small bathroom.  
North stared after him, waiting until he'd closed the door before turning to England. "I wonder what's wrong with him," he said softly. England nodded, said that he'd like to find out, too. They would ask him once they'd had dinner and the oldest brother'd had a bit of sleep.

But Ireland wouldn't give any clear answers to their questions, reluctant to even act as if anything was wrong anymore, though he wasn't quite willing to leave them. And the two members of the UK, in turn, were reluctant to let him leave just yet. First they wanted to assure he was alright.  
England slept on the couch that night, which wasn't as comfortable as he'd hoped, seeing as it was too short to properly lie on. But he slept quickly and rather deeply as well. But around three in the morning, he was woken abruptly by the sound of a scream and then a crash. He was jolted awake, eyes shooting open. He heard a terrified whimpering come from one corner of the room, and when he looked at it, he saw Ireland sitting on the floor beside his bed, trembling and eyes wide. "Cearul...?" North asked drowsily, voice slurred with sleep. "What's the matter...?"  
"S-s-she's following me even here!" Ireland choked out, voice quivering with fear. "T-to the other side of the world... s-she just... she follows me everywhere..."  
"Who...?"  
"That's not helping, Coineach," England said quickly to silence his exhausted little brother, getting to his feet and walking over to Ireland. There, he knelt before him, looking him in the eyes. Upon seeing England up close, Ireland whimpered again, trying to move away from him. But he was cornered against the wall. "Cearul," England said carefully, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Cearul, it's okay. No one else is here but the three of us. Just you, me and Coineach. Alright? Just us, no one else, definitely no woman." He chuckled for a moment, hoping that a joke would help Ireland recollect himself again. "Though I sure could do with one by now!"  
Northern Ireland, more awake now, huffed. "Now you're not helping, Arthur," he said, nodding to Ireland, who sat with his eyes closed now, breathing harshly. He then got out of bed and sat down beside Ireland. "Who is 'she', Cearul?" he asked gently. "Who did you think was here?"  
Ireland hesitated again, but with England kneeling in front of him and North pressed to his side, he finally gave in. "I-I've been seeing mom," he confessed. "_Everywhere._ A-and not the way one'd like to see her..." England asked him what it was that scared him, and he sighed. "She looks... sad, disappointed, angry, scared... all of those things. One time it's this, than it's something else again. But most of the times she looks so sad... It's as if she's trying to tell me something. And whatever it is, I should be scared of it." He curled up a bit, adding in a whisper: "Well, mission accomplished. I'm terrified."

"How long has this been going on, Cearul?" North asked drowsily, threatening to fall asleep again. He hadn't been truly awake yet, after all. Ireland shrugged. "About... eight or nine months, I guess. I didn't see her so often at first -the second time was two months after the first- but now she appears at least twice a week. It's never been so close together as today, though -or yesterday and now, depends on the time."  
"Well," England sighed, also feeling tired again, "that does explain why you're practically scared of seeing me. And what you said at the meeting -'you look alike'..." Then he shook his head and got up, pulling Ireland to his feet again as well. "Go to sleep, Cearul," he then said. "Mom's gone. And if she _is _trying to tell you something, time will tell what her message is. Don't worry about it too much now." Ireland gave a slow, sleepy nod, trying to relax his shoulders again. He then looked down at Northern Ireland, who had fallen asleep where he sat against the wall. "He's still a child, isn't he?" the older Irishman whispered. "When he's asleep like this... he still looks like a child." He smiled warmly, then bent down to pick up the sleeping boy. "Oof!" he laughed softly when he stood again, North in his arms. "And then you realise that he's becoming a man. God, he's getting heavy!" Thankfully, Northern Ireland didn't wake up when he was being carried, nor when he was placed on his bed again and Ireland pulled the sheets over him, up to his shoulders. The older nation looked at him for a moment longer, smiling, his eyes filled with warmth. He looked completely calm again. Suddenly England realised this was what he'd done with Sealand so many times. But he decided not to say anything about it: if this was what Ireland needed to calm down again after his hallucinations -for that was what they were, according to England- then so be it.

Ireland then went to bed again as well, and so did England. Only he didn't attempt to sleep just yet. He waited until he heard Ireland's breathing become as deep and regular as North's, then got up and went to the phone. He dialed Scotland's number, hoping he'd pick up, and was relieved when he heard his brother's voice. "Artie?" the Scot asked. "Goodmorning, laddie. But... isn't it around midnight there?" England just said softly that it was, and apologized for the fact he had to whisper. "That's alright. It's my eyes that are bad, not my ears. Now what'd you call for?" He quickly explained what had happened during the meeting and just now, and Scotland listened in silent shock. "So... what shall we do, laddie?" he asked when England was finished, and the younger nation shrugged.  
"Could you call his old therapist?" he asked. "We need to know if this sort of thing has happened before... or maybe that he has some mental condition or whatever that could cause this? Just... try and find out more about this."  
"Will do," Scotland promised. "But you do know therapists don't usually give away information about their patients like that? I know we're family, but that's confidential stuff. Though, maybe he'd make an exception for a _nation_. I don't know. I'll try. You just keep an eye on him, will you?" England nodded and said that he would, but broke off with a yawn. "Now go back to sleep, Artie," Scotland told him. "You have work to do tomorrow." England nodded, said goodbye quickly, flopped down onto the couch and slept again within seconds.

* * *

The next morning, without even needing England to tell him to do so, Ireland mentioned he would make an appointment with his old therapist the moment they were home again. "This is crazy," he muttered, yawning -he'd had a terrible night. "I thought it wouldn't last so long, but it turned out differently. Now it's simply got out of hand... stupid." England made a mental note of this: Ireland seemed to actually believe their mother was trying to tell him something just after one of his 'episodes', as he'd call them for now, but appeared to be in denial of it later. Northern Ireland just gave his oldest brother a hug, telling him that he was glad he'd get help. And also that he didn't think it would be impossible that this Brittania was real -only that Ireland shouldn't be afraid of her no matter what. "She's your mom," he said. "Who is afraid of their mother? Especially someone as gentle as her: she loved you very much, and still does, after all." When he'd said this, something flashed in his eyes, and he averted his gaze, falling silent abruptly. Both England and Ireland wondered what bothered him, as something clearly did, but they didn't care to ask him. It didn't look like it was really important.

Ireland kept his promise about therapy. Though it didn't seem to work much. He still saw Brittania regularly, and though he tried not to show it much, his brothers could still easily tell that he was terrified, and thus they could also always tell when it happened. At first they tried to help him, but it was soon clear he didn't want help, not with this, so they stopped. And he dealt with his problems on his own from then on, silently, not bothering to talk about it anymore.  
North, a few weeks later, saw her in his dreams as well, and he blamed Ireland for it. "If he hadn't been going insane again," he muttered to Scotland, who accompanied him in Belfast for two weeks, "then I wouldn't have been thinking about her so much that I, too, would see her." But at least she hadn't talked to him again. He didn't mind her presence, but after Ireland's experiences, he didn't want to talk to her. Imagine that she would tell him why she was haunting Ireland, and then he'd have to tell him! And he didn't want that. He had enough troubles of his own. But he understood his older brother completely: the look she had given North, though brief, had been filled with pity, sadness and some sort of warning. Though what she was warning him for, he had no idea.

"Say, Allistair," he asked his older brother one day, as the Scot was baking an egg for the both of them for lunch. "Is it alright with you if I go out for tonight?" Scotland blinked in surprise, but didn't object. "Sure. You're 60 years old, laddie, why're you even asking my permission?" North only shrugged. "I don't know," he answered plainly. "It just feels more right to ask you than to just leave."  
"Hm." North inspected his brother for a moment then. He'd known for the past two days now that the Scot had a cold, having caught a case of bad economy again, like most countries did around this time. North's own wasn't too great, and neither was that of the rest of the family, seeing as they were all connected. But he didn't appear to be improving much yet. On the contrary, the slight flush on his cheeks told North that he had a fever, though it was a mild one.  
"And then when I'm gone tonight," the young nation suggested, "how about you take the opportunity to get some proper rest? Take some meds, go to bed early, feel better in the morning. You don't have to stay up to wait for me." Scotland smiled, shoulders shaking with silent laughter for a moment. "Deal," he answered, turning to look at North now. "But you'd better be back around midnight, anyway, understand?"  
North smirked and rolled his eyes. He'd be back as late -or early- as he liked. He had no work to do in the morning and Scotland wouldn't be awake to check. He would enjoy his night and make it as long as he could handle. "By the way," he then continued, hoping to just hold a conversation with his brother until lunch was ready, "did you know Arthur still uses drugs sometimes?" He'd found that out not long ago, but though he'd done a thorough search through the house, he hadn't found any more than what his brother had used. Scotland nodded with a sigh. "But at least not often. In the past 5 years, I've only seen him do so twice, maybe thrice. And anyway, everytime he's used, he honestly tells me or Dylan, and we've found enough proof that he hasn't used more or more often than he tells us. So I wouldn't worry if I were you."  
"Alright, then," North mumbled, sighing again, but in boredom this time. He couldn't wait for night to fall. Scotland then took the frying pan off the stove, and a minute later handed Northern Ireland his lunch, sitting down in front of him. "I mean it," he said with a grin and eyes twinkling with joy. "I'll be up until eleven, give or take, and probably won't be asleep until midnight. If I don't hear you return-"  
"-you'll what?" North asked, matching his brother's grin. "You'll punish a 60-year-old for staying up late?"  
"I might just do that."  
"We'll see."

* * *

Late at night, Northern Ireland walked back home, stumbling a bit every few steps. He was exhausted. Maybe Scotland had been right and he shouldn't have stayed out for so long. But home was only ten minutes away now, and his bed only fifteen. Twelve if he didn't bother brushing his teeth, which he didn't feel like doing anymore now.  
Nights were far from silent in the big cities in this age. As he walked, he heard people chattering, music booming from a club he hadn't been allowed to enter due to his physical age, footsteps of the people passing him by. Cars somewhere in the distance. Two people fighting in the house he walked past... on the other hand, it might not be a fight after all, though he couldn't be sure. Like he _wanted _to be sure, he thought with a shiver. No thanks.  
But it was silent enough for him to make out little things he wouldn't have noticed during the day. Voices whispering near him. "Are you sure this is him?" one asked, and the other mumbled something back which he couldn't hear. North yawned. He just wanted to be home now. "You got it?" asked yet another voice. "Yeah," the second one answered. "This won't take long." North stifled another yawn, pushing their whispers to the back of his mind, trying to think only of his bed. Gods, he _really _shouldn't have stayed out for so long.

Suddenly a hand clasped over his mouth from behind, and arms wrapped around his chest, keeping his arms in place. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't make much noise. There was cloth between his face and the hand covering it, smelling strangely sweet. He grew drowsy as he breathed it in, his limbs getting weak. Still, he struggled as much as he could, lashing out with his right foot to kick his attacker in the knees, but he didn't reach high enough, and his legs didn't have the strength left to do much damage. "Dammit!" One of the voices spoke, and he felt another pair of arms restraining him. He caught a glimpse of a middle-aged, dark-haired man from the corner of his eyes. "This dose should be enough to knock out a full-grown man!"  
"Idiots," the third voice came again. "He's not human, of course chloroform isn't strong enough. I told you so, didn't I? He's hardly even dazed by it." In his panic and struggles, North thought he could hear a third pair of footsteps approaching him, and he knew this third man must be just a foot behind him now. "This," he spoke, "is how you knock out a demon-boy."  
Then he felt a terribly hard blow to the back of his head, and the world went black.

* * *

Ireland yawned, only half-awake, as he just finished his breakfast. He'd been working late last night, and the nights before as well, as he was busy with his position within the IRA, his therapy and regular work. It was becoming a bit too much by now, but he simply had no choice but to do it all. And if he had to choose, he already knew he would choose his job as a nation above everything else, so when the day came he couldn't handle all this work anymore, at least he knew what he'd focus on then.  
The phone rang, and he quickly went to pick it up, wondering who would call so early. "G'morn-" he began, but he was cut off immediately by the voice of his younger brother.  
"Cearul!" Scotland exclaimed, sounding like he was in total panic. "Cearul, thank God you're awake -there's big trouble here!" He coughed then, and as he waited for his little brother to speak again, Ireland's heart pounded painfully against his ribs. "The lil' lad went out yesterday an' he hasn't come back yet!"  
"Coineach?" Ireland asked for clarification, getting more worried with the second. "And he hasn't called or left a note? M-maybe he decided to stay at a friend's place... who knows?"  
"No, Cearul," the Scot answered, "no note, no call. I checked with some of his usual places already, but he's not there. P-please just get over here as quickly as you can and help me search for him." Ireland nodded and promised that he would. But he was still in denial at that point, and said that maybe North wasn't staying with one of the usual friends, maybe one his brothers didn't know yet, and he would be home again that afternoon. But Scotland pulled him out of his denial quickly. "Cearul, _no_," he said. "It's simple: Coineach is missing."

* * *

**So _this_ is the point I've been talking about where all hell breaks loose *bright smile*  
**

**The reasons for all this will be explained in the next chapter, as well as some more.  
(And no, Crossfire, England didn't exactly recover quite yet -just mostly, as you could read. But he's fine. I guess.)**

**Heh, and now it might be a little while before the next update, as I'll have no access to internet next week. Sorry for that!**

**I hope you liked the chapter, and please leave a review~**


	34. Chapter 34

**A very, very early chapter for once! I don't know how I managed to write this so fast, but... I did. So here you have it!**

**Crossfire, of course I value your opinion highly! You always do seem to know what you're talking about, which makes it interesting to read. That, and your opinion is practically the only one I ever get... (except for my mom's, who is still only in Rising chapter 27 at this point *sigh* and parents don't count)**

**I do want to post a warning first. This chapter contains some pretty intense scenes (torture, intense emotions) and I dare say some parts are teetering on the edge of being M-rated. You have been warned.**

**Now, I hope you'll like this chapter, or... whatever you should call it...**

* * *

Northern Ireland awoke with nausea and a throbbing head. He didn't want to open his eyes, afraid of seeing bright light that would make his headache worse, but when he heard unfamiliar voices, they shot open almost of their own accord. When he then saw three men surrounding him and heard their voices, memories flashed through his mind. He'd been attacked at night, as he headed back home. They'd tried to sedate him with chloroform, which hadn't worked. But something knocked him out. He recalled having woken up before after that -in a car, if his memories were right. But then that awful chloroform had been enough to turn off his lights again. Right now, he just waited for it to happen again, as he was pretty sure it would.  
But it didn't.

"Look who's awake, lads!" the oldest of these humans, a middle-aged man, said as he spotted North's open eyes. "Our special guest is back. Gods, his kind wakes up quickly..." Northern Ireland fought to get the fog out of his mind. He couldn't afford being dazed now -he needed to be fully conscious if he wanted to get out of here. "Only more proof that we have the right one, hm?" Damn, he was stuck. He could move his wrists a bit, but his arms were strapped to his body just above them. And he couldn't move his legs much, either. The human grinned at him. "At least you have no superhuman strength, hm? Now that would've been a pity. But it seems you can't escape. Good."  
Northern Ireland glared at him with all the anger he could muster. And that was a lot. "Why did you take me here?" he demanded angrily, not showing any of his fear. For he was terrfied, and all he really wanted was for his brothers to be here and save him.  
Another human spoke next. "What do you think? You're Northern Ireland, and that's exactly what we want to rid the world of." North turned his head to look at this man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Only then did he notice the badges they wore, with a phoenix on it. Provisional IRA. The young nation shivered, but he hid it as best he could.  
"Get rid of me?" he asked, trying to sound confident. "How were you planning to do that?"  
"By killing you, obviously."  
North narrowed his eyes. Now that was where they were wrong. "You're humans," he told them. "I'm a nation. You cannot kill me. That's impossible."

The oldest of the humans spoke again, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he looked at the captive nation. "Maybe. But we knew it would be a challenge. You've survived a building collapsing on you, over 20 bombs detonated in your heart and so much more." Northern Ireland then blinked, surprised and shocked that the man knew this -especially the part of him being present when a pub collapsed after a bomb was detonated. That had been nearly a decade ago. The human must've understood the look of surprise in his eyes, as he smirked and said: "We've been following you for a while, kid. Have you really never noticed us following you through the streets of Belfast? Your kind should also make an effort of staying out of modern day's media." He grabbed an old newspaper, searching for a certain page, then showed it to North. There, the young nation saw a picture of a minister -and himself standing a little way behind the man. That had been years ago. "You still look the same as back in 1974," the human told him, and North felt unable to breathe for a moment, as if something was pressing onto his chest. "7 years have passed, and you haven't changed a bit. No, you've grown a little older, but I'd say a few months sooner than a few years. If you were human, you'd be an adult by now going by this picture." He threw it aside and leaned over the nation, staring him into the eyes with his own grey ones. "You heal quickly, grow older at the slowest pace I've ever seen, and cannot be killed by humans -at least, that's what you think. But the point is, kid, everyone can be killed. We just need to find out how to break you, that's all."

"I hardly think even your kind can survive a broken neck," one of the humans suggested, his gaze burning into North. "Or if we can get you to bleed out. Your heart is pumped by blood just like ours are, isn't it? If there's no blood left in your veins, it should stop."  
"Simply find a way to keep the wounds open," the third human added to this, nodding in agreement, "and you're done."  
North began trembling now, he just couldn't help it anymore. There was a huge lump in his throat, choking him with fear. He knew he couldn't die, he just knew he couldn't -but he also knew these humans would give it a damn good try. Somehow he had to find a way to convince these people to let him go. "Even if you _do _manage to kill me," he snapped at them, "and trust me, you _won't_ -but if, you wouldn't end Northern Ireland! If a personification dies a new one will be born soon after -that's how it works."  
"Oh, but we know," the oldest human spoke again, smirking. "And we also know that if a nation is killed during a war, the chance they _won't _be reborn is far greater than during any other time. And this is practically a war, isn't it? It's worth taking the chance." His smirk grew wider as he saw North's furious -and terrified- glare. "We've done our homework, kid." Then something flashed in his eyes, and he spat: "Ha! 'Kid', I keep calling you -ridiculous! You're older than I am. You're simply a demon."

The youngest of the humans, just older than Ireland's physical age, then returned after having gone for just a moment. North hadn't even noticed he'd left. He strained his neck to be able to look at this human, and then wished he hadn't. The long knife he was carrying looked razor-sharp. "Got the supplies," he told the older human, his superior most likely. "Should we just start with a stab in the heart?" The older man nodded. Then the human walked over to North, looked at him for a moment, raised the knife. Northern Ireland stared at the gleaming metal wide-eyed, preparing for the horrible pain he'd be in seconds from now. Then he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, just as the knife plunged into his chest. And he screamed.

* * *

"_No,_ Allistair, you're staying here now!" Ireland said for the dozenth time. He actually wanted to give up just about then, but he would not let Scotland win in this. "You've been searching all day already, and you clearly need to rest for a moment." The Scot looked pale and feverish, yet he glared at Ireland as he was about to protest once more that he had to go look for his little brother. But Ireland wouldn't let him no matter what. "You haven't even eaten all day! Go do so now, then take a nap -or at least just rest. _I_ will search for tonight, and tomorrow, we'll go together. Alright?"  
Scotland huffed, wanting to protest and leave more than anything, but with how dizzy he felt now, even he had to agree that he would only slow his brother down at this point. Exhaustion and hunger had made him weak, but he just couldn't bring himself to eat or sleep until Northern Ireland was found -or at least until he knew the boy was safe. "_Fine_," he said reluctantly, "you go. I'll... I'll call the police or something, report him as missing, and-"  
"No!" Ireland interrupted him hastily. Scotland blinked at him in surprise. The older nation looked distressed at the mention of involving police. "Al, I have a pretty good idea where he might be, and if I'm right, involving the police or government will be a huge mistake." Fear flashed in his eyes then, and he added in a whisper, "it could turn this conflict into an actual war."  
Finally Scotland understood what he meant, and he heart seemed to freeze with dread, unable to beat anymore. "You mean... the IRA has him?"  
Ireland nodded solemnly. "At least I think so. There's no way to be sure, but..." Any fear or doubts in his expression then turned to determination, and he declared: "No, I _can _be sure of it. Now I know for sure I did the right thing, joining the IRA..." He turned to look at Scotland then, and the younger nation was almost startled by the fierce determination his his gaze. "I'm going to find him no matter what, Allistair. Within 48 hours, I swear, we'll have him back safe and sound."

Ireland then quickly left, and as Scotland stared after him through the window, he felt a lump in his throat. _I'm sorry, Coineach,_ he said to his little brother in silence, hoping he could hear him somehow. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. _I'm failing you. I know I am, and I'm so sorry._ He should search harder. Or he should've been stricter in the first place, not allowing him to stay out all night. Then maybe this wouldn't even have happened. It was his damn fault.  
He felt sick as he turned away from the window, and decided to lie down first of all. He wouldn't be able to eat now, no matter how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten in over a day now, but he guessed North hadn't, either. If his little brother was suffering because of his stupid mistakes, he deserved this discomfort. _No, _he scolded himself then, closing his eyes again as he lay on the couch for just a moment. _I shouldn't blame myself... it's __**not **__my fault._ Right. Right, it wasn't. _Calm down, Scotland... just calm down. He's alive -he's a nation. He's alive._ He just kept telling himself this, and eventually he managed to calm himself just about enough, to the point that he at least thought he could sleep for a bit. Still... "Please, Cearul," he begged his brother under his breath. "Please, find him..."

* * *

Northern Ireland lay numb, trying to focus on his breathing, which was a struggle at the moment. After the humans had stabbed him in the heart, they had waited for two hours. Then they slit his wrist, only to be disappointed when the cut closed before he could even pass out. They had discussed what to do next after that, and had actually gone for a long while, giving him the time to recover, regenerate some of his lost blood, and feel better again. Then they proceeded to choke him when they got back, which resulted in him passing out for just about an hour. He'd heard them talk when he woke up again, and they were complaining about how strong his body was. "He got no oxygen for ten minutes," one said, "and yet, his heart somehow kept beating throughout it all! It did slow down a lot, though. Maybe asphixiation combined with bloodloss will do the trick?"  
They decided not to make that their next test. Their next test was snapping his neck. He'd been unconscious for hours after that, and didn't wake up again until now, in the early evening judging by the behaviour of the men. They seemed more tired than they had been earlier that day. "Damn," one of them, the blonde one, cursed when he saw North open his eyes again. "He's survived even this!" He and the other two then left the room, fuming with anger and frustration, and left North to lie there in panic and fear. He couldn't move or feel anything. Only his neck hurt, and his face was the only thing he could move. Was this how Wales had felt, back when he'd been paralyzed, he wondered for a moment. Then terror set in. How long would _he_ be paralyzed? Because that was what he was now, he knew it. But he also knew it would heal -humans had done this to him, no nation. He would be alright.  
And then he cried. His body had been sore all over before the humans had broken his neck, and he knew that once he could feel again, it would hurt once more. And these people would keep on trying to kill him until he died. One day of constant torture was more than enough for him, and he hope it would be over soon. He hoped their next attempt would kill him. Then he'd be free of this agony, and his brothers would be able to cope with the loss eventually.  
His brothers...

"Please come..." he begged them softly as he lay sobbing. He wanted to crawl into a corner and curl up, but his fingertips were only just starting to tingle a bit. It would be some time before he could properly move again. "Please... please, save me..." He knew he couldn't depend on his brothers alone: he needed to take action himself, too. But everytime he saw an opportunity to escape, the humans would be quicker and do something horrible to him and unable him of doing anything. Maybe tomorrow... maybe. For now, all he wanted was his brothers to come save him.  
No, that wasn't true. In this situation, he didn't feel the usual dread at thinking this thing, a thought that only rarely came to mind. _Papa..._ He bit his lip, tears trailing down his face. He struggled to keep his head still, but he knew he had to -what if he damaged his neck further himself? Would it still heal? _Papa... please..._ If Ireland believed he could be a good father to the young nation, then this would be the perfect time to prove it, North thought. Because if Ireland appeared now and got him out of this hellhole, he would embrace him and never let go again. He would be so grateful, he would forget the 13 years of tension and anger between them. He would love him forever and ever for getting him out of this hell. He would forgive everything the older Irish nation had ever done to him and every time he had hurt him. "Just save me," he choked out in a whisper. "Please, just get me out of here."

The door the creaked as it opened, and he bit his lip, trying to stifle his sobs and stop the flow of tears from his eyes. _They_ were here again. Soon enough, one of _them_ came into view. It was the middle one when it came to age, halfway through if not in his late thirties. Short, mousy brown hair, a bit of stubble. But the way he looked at Northern Ireland now, as he lay crying and motionless, looked so much different from what the boy had seen all day. Pity. Goddamn pity.  
"The other two are gone now," the human told him softly. "I'm on guard duty for the night -don't worry, no more useless experiments for today." He sighed and sat down on the floor beside North. The teenager wanted to get away from his as quickly as possible, but the tingle in his fingers had only just spread to the rest of his hands. He couldn't even twitch. The human then placed a hand on his cheek, and North was disgusted at feeling this touch. "The name's Samuel," he introduced himself. _Like I want to know the name of someone who's constantly trying to kill me._ "Damn, you're freezing," Samuel then mumbled, quickly taking off his jacket. "I suppose you wouldn't notice -I don't think you can feel, if you also cannot move, right?- but your temperature is way too low." Northern Ireland was still trying to stop sniffling as the human laid the jacket over his body. "Just tell me when you think your neck can move again safely, and I'll take you to a proper bed to warm up."

"Why?" North rasped, fighting to control his breathing to speak steadily. "You want me dead! Why would you do _anything_ for me?" The man looked at him in silence for a moment, then sighed. "I know how cliché it sounds," he answered, "but it's true. I have a daughter about your age -or... well, you know what I mean- and I tried not to think about that all day. But when I walked in just now and saw you like this..." He looked away. "It's all too easy to imagine somebody doing this to my little girl. No matter what the others say, you're still a kid. A kid who's nearly twice my age, but a kid nonetheless. Trust me, I'm your best hope while you're stuck here -the other two don't care. All they see is a demon, and think of it as their task to get rid of you. I'm past that now." He leaned in a little closer to North now, looking at him again. "Look, I don't doubt what you said earlier today -about your family coming here to kill us all- and until then I can't let you go. I'll make sure I'm out of here -and out of the PIRA- before I can get killed. I have a family to stay alive for. But I'll also make sure the others will go as easy on you as I can convince them to. Alright?" North only blinked and huffed. He hated this man with all his heart, and wouldn't accept any pity or help from him. But, he had to be honest, if it was true what he said about his family, then North wouldn't want this man to die. His wife and child -or children- deserved better than to lose him, no matter how horrible he was behind the scenes.

"So tell me," Samuel said after a little while, "what's your family like? Parents, siblings... like any human family?"  
"I have brothers," North answered, not seeing why he couldn't humor the human and answer his questions for now. Maybe he'd go away again. And, he had to admit, even if it was to _him_, talking to somebody felt good. "And... I suppose I have a father..." Well, for now he did at least, while he felt so scared and lonely all the damn time. Just the thought of having a parent was comforting, and the thought that his father would come and save him even more so. "They're amazing," he then continued. "The most perfect big brothers one could wish for, despite their many flaws. Those are what makes them perfect to me... They're great. They will come and kick the living daylight out of you all for doing this to me, mark my words." The human chuckled for a moment, both amused and nervous. He didn't doubt the boy's words one second.  
"You were right," North mumbled after a long silence of at least half an hour. "I _am_ cold..." And that cold was making him drowsy -slight hypothermia, he knew, though he had no idea how that would work with his body exactly. But it had to endure so much already today, maybe it couldn't handle this.  
"You can feel again?" North then tried to nod, very carefully, but his neck felt alright again. Upon seeing this, Samuel carefully picked him up, carrying him to another room. He wanted to be out of that damn human's arms as quickly as possible, but he also had to admit he loved the warmth radiating from his body, warming him right back up. He closed his eyes, feeling better overall when his body hit a matras. It was nowhere near soft, but anything was better than the concrete ground. Samuel then left and quickly came back with a small, ragged blanket, which he put over the young nation, taking his jacket from him and folding it as a small pillow. "Unfortunately," he said, "for my own sake, I will have take away this moment of comfort before the others return in the morning. They'd kill me for it."  
Northern Ireland huffed. _Well, _he thought angrily, _**let them.**_

* * *

Scotland still lay on the couch when he awoke the next morning, when the sun was just rising. Just then, Ireland walked into the room, holding two small plates with sandwiches, one of which he promptly placed on Scotland's chest with an angry huff. "Eat," he ordered him. "Honest to God, Al, you haven't eaten at all yesterday! Stupid idiot." The Scot got up, feeling weak with hunger as his stomach cramped in protest at having been empty for so long. "I'm sorry," he mumbled with a yawn. "I didn't plan on sleeping through the night like that." He quickly ate his breakfast then, asking Ireland how long he'd been out searching.  
The Irishman then yawned as well, which was enough of an answer to Scotland. "I came home after midnight," he confessed. "But I've checked thoroughly. Kidnapping the personification of Northern Ireland was not an official PIRA operation." He then took a moment to swallow a few bites of his bread as well. "But I just _know _it's them. A smaller group, then, who decided to take matters into their own hands." He clenched his hands into fists then, gritting his teeth. "We're going to find those bastards, Allistair. We'll find them and rip them apart." Scotland nodded. The worst thing that could happen was getting hurt -and that would heal within minutes to hours- and getting in trouble with the law for killing some people. And all that was totally worth it. "I wonder what they're doing to him, though," he muttered, at which Ireland turned his gaze to him. Scotland was startled to see his pale eyes blazing with a fire like he'd never seen before. "I _know_ what they're doing," Ireland answered. "And it's bad enough to make me want to kill them, revive them and kill them again. _Nobody harms my child._" Scotland stared at him for a moment, shocked at his fierceness, but then nodded and matched his brother's determintation. "Or my little brother," he added, narrowing his eyes. They would get him back no matter what. The two of them. They had told Wales and England the day before, but they hadn't been allowed to come by the government -somebody had to take care of the countries. In fact, Wales had been allowed to take over for Ireland for the time being, and resided in Dublin for as long as North was missing, which, if everything went according to plan, wouldn't be long anymore.

They didn't take a break all day, Scotland searching on the north side of Belfast and Ireland on the west side, as they had covered east and south the day before. And then, if they couldn't find him here, they would go to other cities in the area first. They hardly thought he had been taken to the other side of the country or further. Scotland had pretty much recovered by now, only rarely being slowed down by a coughing fit or a spell of dizziness. By the beginning of the afternoon he had to take a break, though, and his body had run out of fuel again. "Goddamn economy," he muttered angrily as he had to go and buy lunch. On good days, he could easily go an entire day without eating, though two would be a little too much even for him. That, he supposed, was the upside of having gone through plenty of famines: you learned to live with hunger better than anyone else could. "But not when the economy's bad, oh no," he complained under his breath. "Then every single fucking thing is dragging you down and holding you back at the _worst fucking times possible._" But Ireland would have to take a break, too, he told himself. Right? Not even he, driven as he was by his anger and worry, could go on the entire day. They had promised to be back home by nine, with or without North, discuss what they had or hadn't found, and how to go on from there.

But the day's search left him tired and disappointed. He had no information to share with his brother, no clue as to where North was. He knew Ireland would have a better chance at finding him with his ties within the IRA, but that didn't take away the frustration and disappointment at having to go home empty-handed. But Ireland, who was already there by the time Scotland returned, was shaking with rage and his eyes ablaze with determination. And the Scot knew he must've gotten close to finding him. "I do have an idea where they might be keeping him," he confessed, "and what they're doing to him. I'm going out again after taking a break, confirm my suspicions or prove myself wrong... either one of the two." He clenched his hands into fists again, teeth bared and eyes narrowed in the purest rage Scotland had ever seen in his brothers. "The bastards are most likely trying to find a way to kill him. They're _torturing_ him, Allistair! They're torturing my boy..." He then took a moment to try and control himself again, but eventually decided it was best to just let go for a moment. "I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL TEAR THEM _LIMB FROM FUCKING LIMB_!" he screamed, so loud that it made Scotland jump in shock, though he could've seen this coming. After all, he felt exactly the same, or at least so he thought. He couldn't know what Ireland was feeling, other than it being the most intense emotion the Scot had ever seen in him. And yet, Scotland could not have been more grateful for Ireland father instincts for the boy. If there was ever a time to act on them, this was it.

* * *

The second day was possibly even worse than the first. The day started out with more bleeding, as the humans had thought of a new technique: they would slit his wrists and keep the knife in place, keeping the wound open as blood poured out. But the knife blocking his veins made the blood stream out of him slower than they liked, and once they moved the metal away and let the blood flow like a tidal wave, the cut would still close before he could even pass out. But afterward he felt faint and cold, unable of doing more then lying on the ground, shivering and whimpering until his blood regenerated a bit once again. The faint feeling didn't go away anymore, as he was then painfully aware of how starved he was, his empty stomach cramping horribly. His throat was parched, and after he'd begged until he barely had a voice left, they finally let him drink. The oldest of the men hauled him up with one hand and put a glass of water to his lips with the other, tilting it. Only it wasn't water at all. It tasted disgusting, and though he barely felt anything at first, once he'd finished the entire glass his stomach hurt only more. He felt feverish and weak as pain stabbed his belly over and over, and it wasn't long at all until he retched, bringing it all right back up. "Poison also doesn't work," the human then commented, scowling. "Damn demon."  
"Please, sir," Samuel then said to his superior, "allow me to give him some _actual_ water for now." The older man turned to him, demanding why he would even ask such a ridiculous thing. The human took a startled step away from him. "I'm unfortunate enough to have a heart," he mumbled, "w-when it comes to children, that is. And he looks too much like one for me to handle all this... without feeling a bit guilty." He was being very careful about it, or at least he tried to be, but North thought he wasn't nearly careful enough. The older human huffed. "Fine. It's not like dehydration can kill him, anyway. Feed him, give him something to drink, then get out of our way. Patrick and I will do the next experiments without you, stupid _weakling._"

Northern Ireland still disliked Samuel greatly, but if he had to pick, he'd rather have him around than the other two. Knowing his name hadn't done him any good as he tortured him that morning, though, and neither had knowing he had a family. How could anyone live with a man that was capable of doing these horrible things? He would never know. But he was grateful for the food and water, at least. Even though his meal was really only dry crackers, which, after watching the boy struggle with it, Samuel had decided to soak in a bit of milk, turning it into some sort of disgusting variation of oatmeal. At least it was easier to swallow with his sore throat, and the water washed away the mushy taste of it. And he felt better after filling his stomach a little and hearing some words of comfort, even if they came from one of his captors.

The next experiment was perhaps the most painful so far. When he was strapped to a pillar in the mostly-empty room and saw the youngest, Patrick, approach him with a syringe, he thought he would get another dose of poison. But when he came close enough, he could see the syringe wasn't filled with liquid. In fact, it wasn't filled with anything but air. He gulped. He'd only heard stories of how painful air bubbles in your veins could be, how they stopped your heart and killed you within seconds, and he wasn't at all looking forward to experiencing it for himself. The needle dug deep into his wrist artery, and one small pump of air was enough to have him screaming and crying in pain. The pain didn't fade for at least fifteen minutes, when his body had gotten rid of the bubbles in his blood in some way. He honestly didn't care _how_ his body was doing all this, so long as it didn't stop saving his life every single time.  
That was the end of these humans' creativity, it seemed, as they threw him into a dark, cold room afterwards, furious, and didn't open the door again all day or night. And somehow, North managed to grin while in there. "If they run out of ideas," he told himself, "they'l let me go eventually... they will just let me go." It was a beautiful idea, and that, combined with the thought that his brothers would come save him, was what kept him sane throughout the night.

His sanity seemed to be jolted out of him the next morning, well before dawn, when he was strapped to a metal table, and the humans had apparently brought a new toy, a huge device of the likes North had never seen before. But he got an idea of what it might do when they attached little strings coming from the machine to his body: two on his chest, two on each side of his head. Agony exploded in him when they turned the machine on and a strong jolt of electricity coursed through his body. He screamed, writhed in pain, cried, begged them to stop. But the machine kept sending electricity through him, the intensity of it getting stronger with each jolt. Eventually his mind could only process one thing: _pain. Pain, everywhere, everything hurting. Agony. Pure agony._  
He didn't even notice when the door slammed open and he heard two voices yell in rage and dismay...

* * *

The night before, Ireland had stormed back to North's home in Belfast after his second search. He hadn't found anything until well after midnight, but eventually, while Scotland had been updating the other family members about their progress, he'd found out exactly what he wanted to know. "Allistair!" he called the moment he walked in. "Allistair, get yourself ready for a raid first thing in the morning! Gather weapons -I hope you have guns here?- and gather your strength."  
Scotland came running over to him, his eyes shining with hope for the first time in two days. "Cearul! Does this mean-?"  
"Yes," Ireland answered, interrupting him. "Allistair, I found him!"

* * *

**So... the next chapter will be next week (I guess)**

**I hope it wasn't too horrible. I mean, I know it was horrible, but I hope not _too _horrible.  
Thanks so much for reading, and I'm sorry for the cliffhanger ;)**

**And please leave a little review on your way out~ thank you**


	35. Chapter 35

**I'm back! I went on holiday to Zeeland (province here in the Netherlands -translation (ironically): Sealand. Yeah, had to share that one) and had no internet _or_ laptop, so I couldn't write, but this went on paper (or laptop) quickly, so it's still well in time.**

**Crossfire, there's more tension yet. But thank you for the review once again!**

**Well, this chapter is a direct continuation from the previous one. So... here you go:**

* * *

Ireland and Scotland stood at the building where North was kept at the break of the third dawn that he'd been gone. Ireland sat crouched in front of the door, fiddling with the lock. "So you even learn how to pick locks within the IRA?" Scotland asked softly. "Huh. I have to get a guard dog now..." Ireland told him to shut up then, and the Scot sighed. "Sorry. Nerves, I guess." Ireland heard a satisfying _click_ soon after, and the door opened. He grinned, but froze as he saw what was behind the door. Or rather, who.  
Brittania stared at him wide-eyed, fear and pain dominating in her gaze above all, and he finally got the message: _get out of here._ But this time, Ireland refused to listen to her. _You're not going to stand in my way,_ he told her in silence, gritting his teeth and glaring. _I'm going to save my son, and __**nothing**__ is going to get in my way!_ The last he saw of her was how she closed her eyes, face downcast, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Then he walked right through her, or he would have if she hadn't disappeared the moment he moved.

Inside, he and Scotland let themselves be guided by their ears, following the sound of Northern Ireland's agonized screeches. As they made their way through a long hallway, Scotland handed Ireland his gun again. They would need it minutes from now. When North screamed again, the Scot tensed in pure rage. "Damn bastards," he muttered. "What in the name of hell are they-? Over here, Cearul!" he then called, gesturing to small stairs leading to a basment. The sound of his poor little brother's screams was loudest from there. Ireland listened for a second, nodded, and they both headed down quickly. Ireland took a deep breath when they reached the last door that seperated him from his son now, and Scotland kicked it open.

In a flash, he saw North strapped to a table, attached to a machine, two armed men standing beside him. They looked up when the door flew open, raising their weapons, but Ireland was faster than them, shooting the oldest one in the shoulder. But the younger man fired a shot as well, the bullet hitting Scotland's hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. "DAMMIT!" Ireland screeched. "I'll kill you!" The man he'd shot just now was still standing, though, and shot a bullet his way, which missed him by a hair. Right then, he saw that North had somehow been desperate enough to use this moment of distraction and free himself from what looked like tight straps, and ran into another room, shutting the door as he fled in pure panic. He shot again, thanking his centuries of experience in marksmanship as he shot the older man right through the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. And though he usually felt guilty for killing anything, right now, the only thing going through his head was _good riddance._ Meanwhile, Scotland had thrown himself on the second human, pummeling him with his good fist, the other hand held limply beside himself. Ireland glanced at him for one moment, decided that he could handle himself just fine with this human, then ran after Northern Ireland. The moment he entered the room, he heard a terrified North yell: "No! G-g-get away, just _get away from me!_"

Scotland's head shot up when he heard a gunshot coming from the other room where North and Ireland were. _Shit! _he cursed internally. _A third one?_ He looked down at his opponent, who was beaten unconscious, then got to his feet quickly and ran into that room as well. Only what he saw wasn't at all what he'd expected. In the far end of the room sat North, with his back against the wall, holding a smoking gun in trembling hands. His eyes were wide and wild with pain and fear, and he looked at Scotland as though he was the Grim Reaper himself, come to end his life. He pointed the weapon at his brother then, pulled the trigger, and much to Scotland's relief there were no bullets left.  
Ireland hadn't been so lucky.  
A few feet in front of Scotland, between him and his terrified little brother, lay Ireland, motionless, blood forming a small pool beside his head. His heart seemed to stop, and time froze for a moment. _Cearul... Cearul..._ Ireland was... no. No, just no. Ireland couldn't be dead. He _wasn't dead._  
_But he was shot in the head! By __**Coineach!**_ Scotland tried to block out the voice that was telling him the one thing he wanted to deny with all his heart, and he made his way past Ireland and to North. He had to get that gun out of his hands, lest there be another bullet in it and he'd end up just like his older brother. _He's not dead._ "Coineach," he said soothingly. "Coineach, laddie, 's me." Northern Ireland stared up at him, but no recognition sparked in his eyes yet. He tried to scramble away from Scotland, but the older nation knelt down beside him quickly, pulled the gun from his trembling hands, then pulled him close. The boy screamed and struggled, but Scotland didn't let go. "Shhh, Coineach, it's alright. It's over now. It's over. You're safe." _But what about Ireland?_ "I'm here now, laddie. We're going home soon, alright? You're safe... you're safe with me." Finally, Northern Ireland seemed to calm down, stopping his struggles and falling silent, instead breathing heavily in his brother's arms. The Scot felt warm tears soak his chest then, and he changed his grip on the boy, making it a bit looser, a bit more relaxed, hoping that would be more soothing.

He then finally dared to look at Ireland, and felt sick when he did. His big brother still hadn't moved an inch, and blood still pooled around his head, where a long gash ran over the top of his skull. The bullet hadn't gone through his head directly, only grazed him in the worst possible place. _Please be alive!_ He pulled away from North, giving the boy a quick kiss on the head as he whimpered, then ran to the corner of the room as fast as he could, where he had just spotted a telephone -a miracle, rather. He immediately dialed the emergency number, explaining the situation -one person hurt and in shock, the other gravely injured- gave the adress, praying to God he was right about that, and listened to instructions. After that, without even checking for a pulse, he tore off his sleeve and wrapped it around Ireland's wound tightly. He didn't need to check for a pulse -he was alive, he had to be. He just had to be. Then he went back to North, held him again, comforting him and soothing him as the boy slowly lost consciousness.

And as he lay there with his ear against Scotland's chest, Northern Ireland looked at the man he'd shot, the man that had tried to hurt him. He lay motionless still, the cloth around his head soon being soaked with blood. He then saw a woman crouched beside him, her golden hair reaching halfway down her back, her emerald eyes shimmering with tears as she looked down at the injured man. She held his head gently in both hands, stroking his cheek, running her fingers through his ginger hair. Then she leaned down and softly kissed the bleeding wound. And then she was gone. North blinked, but she didn't reappear. And after this, the last thing he saw before the world went black before his eyes, was the faint rise and fall of the man's chest.

* * *

Several hours later, Scotland sat by Northern Ireland's bed. He felt numb, his mind blank, not a single feeling or a single thought inside of him. He just stared at North now, who was being kept sedated on purpose now. First he needed to be given some time to heal physically, and only then, they thought, would he also be able to heal mentally. And Ireland had just had surgery: it turned out the bullet _had_ gone deeper than it seemed at first glance, shattering a part of his skull, which in turn damaged his brain. It was bad. Very bad.  
But Scotland tried not to think about that as he softly stroked his little brother's hair, whispering words of comfort to him. He had called both England and Wales, and the latter would be here by the end of the day, and England would arrive the next. By then, North would be able to come back home.  
And Ireland might be dead.  
_Don't think about that._

It wasn't long before the surgent that had operated on Ireland came in to report to him how it went. "So how is he?" Scotland asked flatly, unable to put any emotion in his voice now. The human sighed. "I'll be frank with you," he said. "The machines are the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. He cannot breathe on his own, and for now he still needs help to keep his heart beating as well even if he _could_ breathe. He might improve, he might not. It will be a while before we know for sure whether or not he will live." He paused for a moment, and Scotland felt sick at hearing this news. A lump grew in his throat, getting bigger with each word, choking him. "And if he'll survive, he'll be in a coma. We're unable to tell whether he will ever wake up from this one. The bullet did more damage than we thought at first. I'm very sorry, sir."  
Scotland gave a weak nod, swallowing the lump and focusing on his breathing for a moment. "Can I see him?" he then asked, voice soft and hoarse. The human hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, telling him which room to go to.  
Once in there he didn't feel much better. Ireland lay ominously still, and with the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, the bandages around his split skull and the various tubes sticking out of his body, the Scot was reminded again of the fact that his big brother might never wake again. He sat down beside him, just staring at him, taking in faint rise and fall of his chest, not thinking of the fact that it wasn't Ireland himself doing that right now. He couldn't think about that now.

With trembling hands, he reached forward, tentatively brushing his fingers against Ireland's hand. His skin still felt warm. _Of course it's warm. He's alive._ Then, carefully, he laid his entire hand over Ireland's. He twined his fingers with those of his brother, closing his eyes as he held his hand like that. But no matter how long or short he'd sat there like that, the motion wasn't answered, and he let go again. Instead, he placed his hand on Ireland's heart. But though he heard the steady beeping of the heart monitor, he didn't feel it. His own heart racing in panic then, he shot up, leaning over his brother and placing his ear against his chest, looking at Ireland's face as he listened. And eventually he found it: weak, soft, but there. His heartbeat. _But not his own._ The only thing he was capable of doing by himself now was dying. The lump was back in his throat and his eyes flooded with tears, but he bit them back. He wouldn't cry. He damn well wouldn't cry over his brother when he was still alive. He was afraid it might somehow jinx him into actually dying. "I'm not allowed to be with you for long, brother dear," he choked out then. "So I'll have to go now... But Dylan will be here tonight as well, I'm sure. And I promise I'll be back tomorrow." He then got up again, leaned forward pressed his cheek to his brother's -which felt colder than his hands had. "Just wait for me until then, alright? Sleep well, Cearul." Then he turned and, without looking back, left again.

* * *

Scotland remained in the hospital all day. First he spent some more time beside North, happy to see the scratches and bruises that covered his body fade slowly. Then he went to Ireland's room again, though he wasn't allowed to enter. Instead he just looked at his brother through the window. Then he sat, read a newspaper, paced through the hallways. Nobody told him to leave, and so he didn't. He didn't feel better until Wales finally arrived that afternoon.  
"Allistair!" the younger nation called when he spotted his older brother, running over to him immediately. The very first thing he did when he reached him was hug him, and the Scot gladly returned the embrace. He really, really needed someone right now. "Oh God, Allistair, I'm so glad you, at least, are alright!" Wales choked out, holding his brother so tight he had trouble breathing after a few seconds. But then he let go again, staring up at Scotland with wide, dark green eyes. "H-how did all this happen...?" The older brother sighed and closed his eyes, seeing again the events of that morning. They were supposed to go save North. They were supposed to save him, go home with him, and everything would be alright. Just how had it all gone so wrong? Why?  
When he finished explaining what happened to his little brother, Wales' eyes shimmered with sadness. "How are they now?" he asked, his voice trembling, afraid of the answer he would get. He knew from what he'd been told that Northern Ireland would be alright, physically sooner than mentally, but Ireland... Scotland shook his head slowly. "Coineach is kept sedated for now until his wounds have all healed, and they're doing so slower than usual, as you can imagine. C-Cearul... Cearul is being kept alive only by machines." He choked up again, but forced himself to continue, trying his hardest to stop his eyes from watering again. "He can't breathe by himself, a-and without the many machines he's attached to, his heart would stop within minutes. He's getting a blood transfusion as well, and as is Coineach. H-his skull was shattered in one point, and I've been told they had to r-remove some sh-shards from his brain a-and-" Wales then silenced him, looking him deep in the eyes, and only then did the Scot realise he was trembling, tears pricking in his eyes. He took off his glasses for a moment to quickly wipe them away, then suggested he and Wales visit one of their brothers. "Coineach is closer," he said, "and we're not allowed near Cearul now, so let's go to him first."

They were silent as they walked, but Wales eventually grabbed Scotland's hand and held on to that until they reached Northern Ireland's room. It was to comfort himself as much as his older brother, but it didn't seem to help Scotland much. His fingers twitched once as Wales' brushed against his, and then he didn't move again apart from walking and trembling with shock, exhaustion and fear for his older brother.  
There was one more person in the room where Northern Ireland was, an elderly woman who had apparently fallen and broken her leg. After hearing what happened to the boy, she was looking after North as if she were his grandmother, worrying about him and asking every doctor that entered the room if he was improving. Scotlad had taken a liking to the human for this almost immediately, and didn't have to worry about having to leave North for a bit, knowing that he'd be treated with gentle kindness when he woke up, even if it wasn't from his brother.  
When he and Wales walked in, she looked at them immediately. "Ah, welcome back. He's still peacefully asleep, though I think he'll wake soon," she reported gently, then looking at Wales. "And I take it you must be Dylan, then? The other brother. I'm very sorry about what happened to the little lad." He nodded and greeted her, then turned to North. Looking down at his little brother, he sighed, then leaned over him and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, then stroking his dark ginger hair a bit. "You're safe again now, Coineach," he whispered to him. "I promise this will never happen again. You will never have to go through this again." He then sat down on the chair beside the one where Scotland sat, and looked at him instead. "I forgot to tell you, but President Hillery is coming this evening."  
"Ireland's president?" the Scot answered, narrowing his eyes, huffing. "Figures."  
Wales gave a short nod, also not too happy about it, but thinking more clearly than his older brother was right now. "He's Cearul's leader, Al," he reminded him, "and with his nation in this critical condition... it's only natural. He _should _be here, even."  
"Hogging all the time visitors can have with _our brother_ right now, no doubt," Scotland muttered, sighing and looking away. "We'll be lucky if we're even allowed near him tonight."

Northern Ireland's eyelids then fluttered a bit, and he grunted, turning a bit in his sleep. He really would wake up soon. Scotland said he'd get a doctor already to examine him when he woke up, leaving Wales alone with the boy for a moment. The nation laid his hand over North's, relieved when the boy grabbed it, but feeling a stab of pity when he felt his tight grip and trembling fingers, and he grunted and moaned again in his sleep, his expression changing to one of fear and pain. Wales felt like a liar then, having said that North would never have to go through this horror ever again, because he was already doing so right now, in his nightmares. He sighed, feeling extremely angry. He'd known for a while that being a nation was a curse more than anything, as they seemed doomed to suffer more than anyone else in their eternal lives, but that this young boy had to suffer so much already was simply unfair. "These are the times when it's all too easy to understand Allistair's occasional desire to be human, hm?" he said softly to North. Then the boy turned around again, and again, face turned to Wales, and then he blinked open his eyes. They were glassy with sleep, and didn't appear to be seeing anything until he blinked another three times. "Hi there, Coineach," Wales then greeted him softly, smiling as warmly as he could manage then. On the other side of the room, the woman asked if he was awake, also smiling when she saw that he was, then falling silent again and turning away, giving the two nations some sense of privacy for a moment.  
"Dylan...?" Northern Ireland asked hoarsely. "You came..." He closed his eyes again, but remained awake. Wales just nodded and answered that it was only natural he came: he wanted to make sure his little brother was alright. Then, Scotland came in again as well, followed by a doctor. "Good evening, Coineach," the human greeted the boy with a gentle smile. "I'm glad to see you're awake now. You had us worried for a moment there, staying asleep longer than planned. But of course, you deserve that rest."  
"...hmhm..."  
The human's smile grew just a little wider at that response, and he leaned in a little closer. "Now, Coineach, we have run a test on a bit of your blood to try and figure out what happened to you, and we've reason to believe you have been poisoned. Now I know that isn't an issue for your kind, but if we've found it, that means it's not out of your system completely yet. So I have a little bit of anti-venom here to speed up that process, alright? It will sting just a little bit, and shouldn't do so for long." Northern Ireland nodded weakly, accepting it, and didn't twitch much when the human gently grabbed his arm and exposed his upper arm. But the moment he saw the syringe, he twisted, struggled and screamed. Startled, the human let go of him again. "Well," he said with a sigh, "if you'd rather not get it, that's fine, too. Thankfully it's not necessary." He put the syringe away and stretched his hand out to North, but the boy hit him away, eyes wide and full of fear and anger as he glared at the man. The doctor then sighed again and turned to the two older nations. "I'll leave him to you for now," he told them. "I think that would be best." The other two nodded, and he left again.

"Coineach, hush," Wales whispered to his little brother when the boy didn't calm down much. "Hush now, it's okay. He wasn't trying to hurt you: he only wanted to help." Northern Ireland's eyes were still wild with fear as he stared up at Wales then, and he didn't seem to comprehend that quite yet. "Do you understand? That was a doctor: he wasn't trying to hurt you. Okay?" Slowly, North nodded, and calmed down again. Then his gaze shifted to Scotland. "You saved me," he whispered softly. "You came... you saved me."  
"Of course I did, laddie," the Scot answered, kneeling down beside him. "We couldn't leave you to suffer, could we? Of course we came."  
"We?" North then echoed, narrowing his eyes. Then he looked at Wales again. "Then... you were there, too. Thank you." He sighed and closed his eyes, but Wales shook his head.  
"Coineach, I didn't arrive until an hour or so ago. The ones to save you were Allistair and Cearul." He bit his lip, cursing his too-honest tongue the moment he said this, for North's eyes popped open again immediately, staring wide-eyed at his brothers. "Cearul?" he asked, seemingly baffled. He was silent for a moment, as if he couldn't believe that. "He... came? He came for me... saved me... papa..." Wales' blood ran cold at that last word. It was the very first time he heard North say that, let alone the first time he saw the boy think of Ireland as his father without laughing at the idea and declaring it a sick joke. And it couldn't have come at a worse time. Whatever had happened to North in the past three days must've been horrible enough to make him _want _to have a parent, to make him wish he had one, and now... he might never have one again. "Where is he?" North then asked, a faint shimmer of hope in his pale emerald eyes for the first time since he'd woken up. "I want him here..."

Scotland tried to answer, but he couldn't get a sound over his lips. So it was up to Wales to answer, and he did so with great difficulty. Oh, if only he could've kept his mouth shut. "Cearul is... Coineach, he's had a really hard day. He's spent hours and hours trying to find you, almost without taking breaks for an entire day. Then he went to save you, fought really hard... He's tired now. Cearul is asleep, alright? It'll be best not to try and wake him right now. He will be asleep for a while yet, okay?" Much to his relief, Northern Ireland accepted that answer without a second thought, and nodded drowsily, saying that he wanted to sleep again, too. "Will Arthur be here?" he asked lastly. Scotland was the one to answer then, telling him that he would be there the next morning. Then the boy closed his eyes and smiled, drifting into sleep again within seconds, a peaceful one now that he knew his big brothers were at his side, protecting him. Wales stared at him for a moment longer, horrified at what he'd just said, the terrible lie he had told his brother, but he knew they couldn't tell him the truth quite yet. If they did so now, he might never recover fromt he shock again. "I-I have to leave for a minute," he told Scotland in a hoarse whisper. "I'll be back soon... I just need to..." He trailed off, taking a deep, shaky breath for a moment, then exhaling slowly. "I just need to see Cearul now." Scotland only stared at him with a tired gaze, nodded and said it was alright, then gave him directions.

* * *

When the Welshman reached Ireland's room, he saw president Hillery there with a surgent. The human was inspecting his nation for a moment. Wales' stomach twisted when he saw Ireland lying motionless like that, getting oxygen and a pulse only through a machine. Then the two humans left the patient's room again, looking at Wales for a moment. "I'm very sorry," the doctor told him apologetically. "You cannot enter the room just yet: we'll run a quick test on him minutes from now. After that, you are free to sit with him, though no longer than a few minutes, I'm afraid. When he's still unstable like this..."  
"That's alright," Wales answered softly, not taking his eyes off his brother. "I understand."  
"Now," Ireland's president then said to the other human, "if I may ask you a few questions, please?" The other man nodded and said that of course he could, and they would take the conversation a little further down the hall, hoping to be out of earshot for Wales. But they weren't. "The first thing I need to know, obviously, is whether he will live."  
"Well," the surgent answered, "if we keep treating him as we are now and keep a close eye on him should anything change, he should be in no danger of dying now." Wales sighed in relief then, not feeling quite so sick anymore as he looked at his brother. For a moment he could almost believe his own lie, and think that Ireland was merely asleep for a long time to catch up on the rest he'd missed when searching for North. Then he listened further.  
"Is there any hope for him waking up again?"  
"That remains to be seen, I'm afraid," was the answer to that question. "This coma, if he recovers enough to wake again in the first place, can last weeks at the least, months perhaps. Of course, it might also be that he won't wake up at all." Wales' heart sank at these words. _No,_ he wanted to tell those stupid, ignorant humans. _No, you're wrong. He will wake up, and sooner than you think!_ He didn't hear the president's next question, but he heard the answer well enough. "Well, as you can imagine, we've no medical records of him older than two centuries. And a lot of the older files aren't very clear -it appears he wrote some of them himself, even. And though we're certain that a nation must've been in this situation before, we have no records of it. There's no telling if a nation ever survived this, and if so, what their condition was upon waking up. What will happen from here on is a mystery."  
"I see," was the solemn answer to that. Then came a short silence, and Wales could imagine the human sighing, probably as unsure what to do or think as Ireland's family was right now. "And if we take him off the machines?"  
"He would be dead within minutes."  
"That might be the best course of action now, then."

Wales' heart seemed to stop when he heard those words. How could he say that? What led that human to believe Ireland was better off in a coffin than in a hospital bed? He gritted his teeth, finding it harder and harder to keep looking at his injured brother now as he tried to block out the humans' voices, but failed. They stood too close for that. "I would hate to see him die, especially considering he's the only personification the Irish people ever had. But the people need a nation. If the current Ireland can do nothing but lie there, the people might be better off with a new Ireland." _Damn you, damn you, damn you!_ Wales wanted to yell, but he bit his lip and stayed quiet. "If it were solely up to me, I'd say you should take him off the machines already, and just let him go. However, we cannot overlook the fact he has family as well." _Exactly, you damned bastard!_ "The final decision lies with me, but for their sake... I'll give him three months. More, if he improves enough to give us any hope before that. But if his condition doesn't change before those three months are up... let him go."  
"Of course, sir. It's a hard decision, but a wise one."  
_No, it's not!_  
"Also, once there is no risk in moving him, I want him in Dublin."  
"Certainly."

Wales cast one last glance at Ireland, silently begging him to wake up soon, then turned away. He couldn't stay there, listening to the humans' cruel words. They couldn't let Ireland die. They couldn't! He quickly made his way back to where Northern Ireland and Scotland were, finding the boy asleep and the older nation leaning on the young one's bed, eyes also closed. Wales wondered for a moment if he was asleep as well, but he raised his head as Wales walked inside. "How did he look?" he asked softly.  
Wales shrugged. "Probably the same as when you left him. I'm afraid there'll be no change for a while." He longed to tell his brother what he'd heard, but when he saw Scotland's exhaustion, he couldn't bring himself to repeat the humans' words. "It's getting late, Al," he said. "We should be heading back home. Coineach is asleep, and you know he'll be taken care of here. But you need to rest." Drowsily, Scotland nodded, getting to his feet again. He swayed for just a moment, but then steadied himself again. "Alright, Dylan," he said with a yawn. "You lead the way, then." He then turned to look at North again, staring at him for just a moment. "Goodnight, Coineach," he said softly. "We'll be back tomorrow, and take Arthur with us. And then you may come home, I'm sure." Then they left, exhausted and drained by the bad news they'd had that day.  
Fate just couldn't be more cruel to them than it was now. But at least they had been able to keep their promise to Northern Ireland, and saved him. At least he was safe.

* * *

**...but Ireland isn't.**

**Well! There you have it: all hell breaking loose.  
all this happened with a good reason, which will be explained in due time. In the meantime, I will just apologize for the many many chapters with drama. But this happened for the conclusion of the story later on -the conclusion of the Troubles (well, officially, that is, 'cause, y'know...)**

**Well, I hope you liked the chapter (or whatever you do with chapters like this) and pelase leave a review! And enjoy your summer (or winter, depends on where you live)**


	36. Chapter 36

**I'm so sorry for doing this to Ireland! All my reasons will be explained in due time.  
****And I'm writing these new chapters rather fast because... summer.**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review~**

**And well... here's the next chapter:**

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, 'this has not happened before'?" England exclaimed the next day in the hospital, when he requested information about Ireland's condition and chance of recovery. Eventually, he got told, like the Irish president the evening before, that nothing like this had ever happened, so they had no way of knowing how it would turn out. "Plenty of nations have been in a coma before! This century, even, so there are plenty of records about it- what about West Germany after the attacks on Berlin? Japan right after Hiroshima and Nagasaki? _Myself_ and France after the Battle of the Somme in '16! Given, those lasted mere days, but Japan's coma lasted weeks! How can you say it's not happened before?"  
"It has not happened _in this manner_ before, sir," was the nervous response of a nurse -England was being quite intimidating in his distress and panic, it seemed. "Those cases were all because of battles in a war, because of what happened to landmass or people. This case has nothing to do with either of those -it is completely unrelated to him being a nation. But since he _is_, we cannot know for sure how his body will react to this situation. That's why." She paused for a moment, inspecting England as his gaze grew more distressed with the second. "I'm very sorry, sir. But you may sit with him now -you all may. He has improved since yesterday, though not very much yet. He's stable now." England kept his jaws tightly clenched then, as he didn't think any sound that would come over his lips now would even resemble words, and no matter the situation, he didn't wish to make a fool of himself publicly like that.  
"_All_ of us," echoed Wales, who was a lot calmer than the day before, having given the situation hard thought the previous night, and accepting it as it was now -however, that didn't mean it was any easier on him now than the day before. "Does that mean it would be okay to take Coi- Northern Ireland to him as well? Yesterday, telling him would have been a mistake, but now..."  
"He is well enough," the human answered. "But please inform him of the situation well before you take him here, and if he doesn't seem ready to see Ireland yet, don't." The brothers nodded, and first went to their youngest brother, who had just had breakfast -and had eaten well according to another nurse. That was a good sign, they had decided. He was recovering.

He was sitting up in his bed when they entered the room, talking to the old lady in front of him, and his eyes lit up when he saw England. "Arthur!" he exclaimed. "They told me you would come! I'm glad you could make it." England could only smile, his eyes not reflecting any of that joy however, and he gave his little brother a tight, warm hug. "I'm glad to see you're doing so well, Coineach," he said to him. Letting go, he added, "and that you apparently enjoyed your breakfast so much. That's good."  
"I was _so_ hungry!" North complained then. "In those three days, I had only eaten once, and-" He fell silent then and bit his lip, unwilling to say any more on the matter. He wanted to forget those three days as soon as possible. That morning, he'd been told the doctors had already assigned him a good therapist that was specialized in trauma like this, and in a weird way, he was looking forward to his therapy, knowing it would help him. Then he shook his head and looked at his older brothers again -seeing that one was missing. "And what about Cearul?" he asked them, grinning a little for a moment as he added, "is he_ still _asleep? Sleeping in like this isn't like him." He saw the other three exchange a glance of worry and unhidden despair then, and his heart sank. "Coineach, laddie," Scotland, who looked absolutely exhausted, sighed. "We have to tell you something, and you won't like it." No, he could tell that from their grim expressions and the haunted look in their eyes, especially Scotland's: his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with grey-blue, as if he hadn't slept in ages. He held his breath as Scotland and Wales took place on either side of him, England sitting down on the other end of the bed, in front of him. Wales pulled him close with a trembling arm, and Scotland grabbed his hand. England's emerald eyes were fixed on his little brother's face, but didn't seem to be looking at him: instead, he seemed off in his own little world just then, and it was a dark place full of misery.

"Coineach," Wales then began carefully, "you're right: Cearul is still asleep. And he won't be waking up for a long time, little brother. In fact, it might be that he will never wake up again." Northern Ireland stopped breathing for a moment, and he stared at each of his brothers in turn, hoping one would soon grin at him and tell him it was a joke, and then Ireland would be standing in the doorway, smiling warmly. But that grin didn't come, even less so the declaration that this was a joke. "Something terrible happened, Coineach, and Cearul is currently in a coma." North then pulled himself free from his brother's embrace, taking his hand out of Scotland's, and shoved out of their way as much as he could on the crowded hospital bed.  
"You're lying!" he exclaimed. "You're lying -he's alright! He's just asleep, you stupid-!"  
"Coineach!" England then interrupted him, and the boy silenced himself. He then looked at Scotland, who sat with his eyes closed and biting his lip, his expression vacant of any emotion. "That's quite enough, Coineach." Then he saw Wales' eyes shimmer with tears, and he knew he was speaking the truth. Ireland _was_ in a coma.  
"It is uncertain yet whether he'll wake up, and even less so how he will be if he does. But we were just told he improved since yesterday." Wales paused for a moment, running the back of his hand over his eyes to wipe away the tears rapidly welling up in them. "H-he shouldn't... if t-they..." He broke off in a whimper then, and he clenched his jaws, trying desperately to stop himself from crying, but making no effort of stopping the fresh tears that were already running down his cheeks again.  
"If they keep him on the machines now," England finished for his older brother, grabbing Wales' hand comfortingly and giving it a soft squeeze, "he should survive at least. He won't die."  
"Unless his president wishes it so," Scotland muttered, his voice devoid of the emotions that were written all over his face. He didn't seem to have the energy to express them anymore. "Coineach, you should know this, too: Hillery was here yesterday, and has decided that, if Cearul won't wake up in time -'in time' being within three months- they will... they will pull the plug on him. They will take him off the machines keeping him alive, and will let him die."

"No!" the boy wailed desperately. "No, they can't! T-they can't do that! He _has _to survive this, he has to pull through!" His voice sounded as choked up as he felt, but the stream of words over his lips continued nonetheless. "He can't die, he can't die!" Wales then whimpered again as he stifled a sob, hand clasped over his mouth to stop himself from making any noise, and England pulled him into a hug, seemingly on the verge of tears himself. Just seeing his brothers in this state confirmed it all in his mind -Ireland was in a coma. Ireland could be dying. Ireland...  
But Scotland, though choked up, remained strangely silent. He grabbed North's hand and, when the boy started crying, hugged him, whispering words of comfort. But as he sat there, crying in his big brother's arms, he realised somehow that Scotland, for all his apparent indifference over this now, was actually taking it hardest of all -his grief so intense, it disabled him from expressing it openly. And right then he wanted to switch the roles and comfort his brother _so bad,_ but he couldn't. He felt he needed comfort himself now before he could help Scotland, and he hoped that Wales and England would be able to help the Scot sooner than he could, because that was a while away yet.

They sat like that for a little while, Wales and North slowly silencing themselves again, England letting a few silent tears slip as he tried to comfort Wales and patted Scotland on the shoulder, too. "C-can I see him...?" North choked out then, still in Scotland's arms, and England nodded, adding that they would all go -he himself had yet to see Ireland, too. As they all got up and ready to leave, the old lady just softly wished them good luck, her eyes shimmering with pity for the family. They thanked her, and went off. And as they walked, Northern Ireland noticed how much Scotland resembled a zombie as they went from hallway to hallway until they reached Ireland's room. His eyes looked as dead as he feared his brother would be soon, his feet dragging over the floor with each step. He'd never seen him so tired before.  
Then when they reached Ireland's room, the first thing he did was look through the window they passed before entering. That pale, motionless figure didn't look anything like the Ireland he knew. But then his eyes fell on something else: there was another person in the room, sitting beside Ireland on the bed, looking at him intently. The way her thin fingers ran through his hair softly reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite figure out what. It was as though he'd seen it before, but he couldn't remember when. When he looked at her face, he recognized Brittania, and he couldn't move for just a moment. But then he relaxed as he realized what she was doing there, beside his oldest brother. _You're keeping him safe, then? _he asked her in silence. She faded away once he entered the room with his brothers, and he figured he was the only one to have seen her, as they didn't react to her presence. _Thank you._

His moment of peace faded when he saw Ireland, heard the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hum of the other machines. England stiffened when he saw Ireland like that, while Wales and Scotland, having seen him like this before now, remained a lot calmer. They each grabbed a chair and sat down beside his bed, motioning for their younger brothers to do the same. After a moment of hesitation, North grabbed a chair as well and sat on the other side of Ireland, at his feet. Somehow he didn't want to be near his head now, and being there would also mean sitting very close to the heart monitor, and he loathed the mere thought of it. But England didn't join them. He was staring at Ireland in complete horror, his eyes wide, standing as motionlessly as his brother lay. "Artie?" Scotland asked him softly. "Laddie, what's the matter?"  
But England still didn't respond for a little while. North wondered if he saw Brittania now, too, even though he couldn't see her himself anymore. She must still be here. But that wasn't it, he found when the older nation finally spoke. "I-I'm so sorry..." he choked out, voice barely audible. "Cearul... I'm so sorry..." Northern Ireland blinked at him, surprised, and Wales shot his younger brother a look of pity then. Scotland didn't react, his gaze fixed on Ireland again. Trembling, England closed his eyes, face downcast. "I-I thought I would be fine with it if you... if you died," he whispered to his sleeping brother. "I thought I wouldn't mind... But I can't lose you... None of us can." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, taking a step closer to Ireland. "I know now that I was wrong," he whispered, "and I'm sorry. Please, _please_ stay with us. Don't you dare give up now." He then went to stand beside Ireland, tentatively reaching for him, but the moment his fingers brushed against his brother's skin, his scared hesitation disappeared, and he carefully laid his hand on Ireland's cheek. "You'll stay with us, won't you? I know you, Cearul, you're a stubborn asshole like that. You'll make it." He then cracked a smile, just a tiny one, but it seemed genuine. "You bloody wanker, worrying us like this. As if we haven't enough to endure yet. At least in a few weeks you'll be back, hm?"

Northern Ireland couldn't breathe for a moment after England was done speaking and sat down, the older nation trying to control his trembling hands. A silence then passed in the room, Wales gently stroking Ireland's cheek and forehead, whispering softly to him in Welsh. Scotland still only stared, though he was now holding his older brother's hand. England sat with his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing. Northern Ireland didn't dare touch Ireland quite yet, afraid that he would be cold, dreading the fact that he wouldn't respond to the touch. Scared that he would fade away at the slightest touch of the boy's fingers.  
But eventually he found the words he wanted -_needed_\- to say, and found his voice minutes later. "Cearul," he whispered softly, leaning in just a little closer to the older nation. "Cearul, I'm sorry for all the fights we've had. They were all because of my uncertainty... because of my fears. And it wasn't fair towards you. I know that I'm not the one who made the first mistake, but I know many of the mistakes that came later were my fault. And they ruined us, they ruined our relationship as brothers, and they ruined our lives." He bit his lip for a moment. "I-I've thought about this so many times, but I never actually did it... I should've given you a chance." He grabbed Ireland's hand now, holding it in both his own. "I should have, but I haven't. Not even once. Cearul, my brothers will forever be my brothers, nothing is ever going to change that. But..." He trailed off for a moment, blinking the tears from his eyes. Then he got up, took a step closer to Ireland, and leaned forward just a little. "But, if you still want to," he whispered, leaning down to kiss the sleeping nation on the cheek before whispering in his ear, "you may be my father sometimes, Cearul, if that is still what you want." He pressed his cheek against Ireland's, careful with his bandaged head, the older nation's ginger hair tickling his nose as he breathed in his scent, still warm and familiar. "I love you, papa..."

* * *

That evening, the four brothers were in North's home, England having shut himself in a room, no doubt writing, Scotland pacing through the house restlessly and Wales having decided to give their overseas family a call. "Matthew," North heard him say, "it's me, Dylan. L-listen, I've got some bad news. Do you think you could be here sometime soon, together with Alfred? You see, Ireland..." North could hear Canada's shocked exclamation even from this distance, and Wales sighed. "I-I'm just gathering the family so they can visit him at least once. Y-you just never know, after all. I'd prefer not to think about it, but it might be the last time any of you get the chance. Well, of course you're family! Blood doesn't have anything to do with that. No, no, I'll call Alfred myself, don't worry. Okay... I'll see you then." North watched him get tense as he spoke, and the same process was repeated when he called America next. Then he dialed Australia's number, but before he could actually call him, North suggested that maybe he should take a break and try to relax again first. "No," was the flat, tired answer. "No, Coineach, I'd better do this all at once. Otherwise I'll have an even harder time later." The he called, and Australia answered soon after. Northern Ireland heard his cheerful voice on the other end of the line even from where he sat, and he winced. "H-hi, Michael," Wales greeted him softly. "Listen, about that visit you mentioned a few years ago, we still haven't had the time, huh? I know you're still busy, and so are we, but I really think it's best if you and Liam come soon. To visit Ireland. Mikey, I'm sorry, but he... he's in a coma." There was a pause. "So I really think it is best if the two of you come over soon, to... well, to say a precautionary goodbye." And then, for once, he sighed and nodded. "Y-yes, I would appreciate it if you told him. I'll call him later myself, but now... Thank you, Michael." Then he put down the phone, sighed, and sat down beside Northern Ireland, who grabbed his hand comfortingly. "Well, that's one dreaded task down," Wales sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and taking some time to relax again and calm down.

The two sat there for a little while, Scotland walking past them once as he paced on and on, disappearing again soon after that. Then they heard a crash in the hallway, and they both jumped up, startled. Wales was the first to reach the hallway, and North heard his shocked yell a second before he reached him again. "Allistair!" Scotland was on the floor, leaning against a wall for support, trembling as he tried to get back to his feet. "'M fine..." he mumbled, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "'M fine... jus' fell... 'm fine..." Wales slid his arm behind his brother's back, the other pulling the Scot's arm around his neck to support his brother. North quickly did the same on his other side, and together they pulled him up again. The boy was shocked, but not surprised, at seeing his dead gaze. He looked numb with exhaustion. "When was the last time you've slept, Al?" he asked the older nation gently. The Scot hesitated for a moment, digging deep in his memory for the answer. "A-a day b'fore Cearul an' I came to get you home..." he mumbled eventually, and Wales sighed, carefully dragging his brother into the livingroom then. "Off to bed with you, then," he said. "Or rather, couch. I'm not dragging you up the stairs."  
But much to their surprise, Scotland actually protested. "No, no, 'm not going to sleep. 'M not..."  
"Allistair, you can't even walk anymore!" North insisted, feeling the heavy weight of his brother pressing down on his shoulders as he helped Wales bring him to the couch. They were practically carrying him instead of supporting. "You haven't slept in three days -and three tiring days at that!" But Scotland shook his head and mumbled incoherent protests. When they laid him down on the couch, his eyes were already closed, but his lips still moved nearly soundlessly. "Give me one good reason why you wouldn't sleep," Wales said to him. "Just one."  
The one answer he gave came in the form of a whimper, and it was a heartbreaking one. "I want to be there when he wakes up..."  
Northern Ireland looked away quickly, biting his lip, and Wales sighed in pity for his older brother. "You will be," he promised him. "You will be. But surely you want to be at your best when Cearul sees us again?" Scotland nodded sleepily, and North wondered for a moment if he wasn't already asleep. "Then rest now, Al," Wales told him. "You deserve to rest." The Scot probably didn't even hear the end of it, he was asleep within heartbeats.

* * *

The day passed by slowly, and Northern Ireland was trying to escape by reading when England came back downstairs. "This entire situation is so messed up," he muttered, sighing, but he halted when he saw Scotland asleep on the couch, silent. Slowly, a smile began to form on his lips, and he quietly walked over to his brother, knelt down in front of him and took off the Scot's glasses, which were threatening to fall by now. "Finally resting, I see?" he whispered warmly. "Good. That should do you good, brother dear." Then he got up and looked at Wales, who was leaning back in a chair with his eyes closed. His smile grew a little wider, and he turned his gaze to North next. "How long have they been like this?"  
"I'm not asleep," was Wales' immediate, quiet answer. "Just... thinking. Al's been asleep for... three hours, I guess? And lo and behold, he's not snoring for once."  
"I suppose snoring takes too much energy," England snickered softly, and then he shook his head. "Dylan, you're right: it all feels much better once you've come to terms with... all this." Wales blinked open his eyes and stared at his younger brother in surprise. "You have?" England only nodded then, sitting down beside North at the table. But he was as restless as Scotland had been before exhaustion had knocked him out, and after some minutes of fidgeting and chattering, he got up again. "Shall I just make us some dinner, then?" he suggested. "I mean, I know we're all not in the eating mood, but we'll have to eat _something._ I can just make us some grilled cheese or something simple like that." Wales nodded, agreeing, though saying quickly that they should let Scotland sleep: he'd sleep through the night if they were lucky. But Northern Ireland had stiffened, and was staring wide-eyed at England. The older nation winced at the panic and terror in his little brother's eyes. "Coineach?" he asked tentatively. "Coineach, what's the matter?"

The boy seemed woken from a trance then, and with shaky voice he answered, "I-I'd rather make my own dinner, if you don't mind." His stomach twisted at the thought of somebody preparing anything he was to eat or drink -what if it was poisoned again? _Fool,_ he scolded himself then. _These are my brothers! You weren't scared of the food they gave you in the hospital._ But he still felt sick at the mere thought. Holding his breath, he stared up at England as he waited for an answer. His older brother inspected him for a moment, then sighed. "Of course, no problem. But, Coineach, tell us if something's wrong, alright? You need to talk it off, or this will never be over. Trust me, I know." North nodded, but didn't talk quite yet. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, when the some more of the shock about Ireland had faded. Maybe then... When England exited the room, he turned to Wales instead, trying to distract the both of them with a different topic. "When will Alfred and Matt be here?" he asked softly. "And... and do you know how long they'll be staying?" He knew Australia and New Zealand hadn't given a definitive date yet, though they would hear one this evening from either one of the two.  
"They'll be here Thursday," Wales answered, not looking at North. "So the day after tomorrow. And Sunday evening, they'll be heading back. As for Liam and Mikey-" The phone then rang, interrupting him, and he smiled -a genuine smile, much to North's relief. "-speak of the devil." He sprang to his feet, clearly looking forward to just talking to someone other than his brothers now. North watched him in silent joy as his brother picked up the phone and said a quick greeting. He needed to see them happy like this -or happier than they had been at least. It gave him the sense that things were still normal, and he needed that more than anything. As if nothing had ever happened, either to him or to Ireland.

"Two weeks?" Wales said in surprise, a little too loudly -Scotland mumbled something in his sleep and turned around- and he quickly spoke softer again. "Two whole weeks? Yes, of course, no problem! If there's not enough space, that doesn't matter -there's a perfect little B&amp;B not too far from us, and they're cheap, so... I'm really looking forward to it. I mean, ideally the circumstances would have been different, but we haven't seen each other in so long. I'm sure the others will like it, too. Well, see you then!" Then he hung up, and sighed with a smile. That phonecall seemed to have given him a moment of actual bliss, and seeing that eased the still-present ache in Northern Ireland's heart as well. "They'll be here the Wednesday after Al and Matt leave, and will stay for two weeks. I'm really looking forward to seeing them again... aren't you?" North just nodded, cracking a smile as well, and tried to get back into his book then. It would be a struggle, but he knew that, no matter what happened, they would somehow be able to find happiness inbetween it all.

* * *

North woke up screaming that night. They had held him to the floor, putting a saw to his ribs to cut out a hole big enough to wrench his heart out -he wouldn't survive without it, they figured. And it had hurt more than anything before ever had. Now he was free, and all that was left to do was get away, get out of here, go home, to his brothers, where it was safe and-  
He felt two hands touch him, holding him by the shoulders, pushing him back down. He screamed and kicked, but didn't hit the person holding him down. One hand then moved to his chest, which was still aching after what they had done, the other to his forehead. He punched then but still hit nobody, and he got scared. Was this some kind of monster? Why couldn't he hit it? Were its limbs really that long? Then he heard a soft breath of air close to him, hushing him gently. "It's okay," the voice, familiar and beloved to him, whispered. "It's okay. You're safe. This was merely a nightmare -you're home now." Then he realised he had been aiming wrong all this time -the figure sat crouched on the floor beside his bed. It was too dark to see him, but he knew it was one of his brothers. _Allistair?_ No, the hands were too slim to be Scotland's. _Dylan, then,_ he decided, closing his eyes again, peaceful and calm now. _Or Arthur..._ When he lay there with his eyes closed and his breathing rythmic and deep, sleep engulfed him again in a matter of seconds. He would've slept deeply within a minute, if the door to his room didn't open then and light flooded in from the hallway. "Coineach?" came another voice, definitely England's now, weary with sleep but at the same time alert with worry. "Is anything the matter?"  
Northern Ireland, half-asleep, shook his head with a sigh. "Just a nightmare... Dylan was here just now, I'm okay now... thank you." England inspected him a moment longer, he could tell from the light still falling on his closed eyelids. Then he heard a soft sigh, and a confused whisper, and the light faded before he fell asleep once more. And as he did, he suddenly understood what England had whispered before leaving -"But Dylan's asleep downstairs...?"

He dreamt again then, a much brighter, warmer dream that filled him with bliss. It was only a memory of long ago, he knew, but that didn't take away his joy at experiencing it again.  
"And what does it say here?" asked his big brother, pointing at a single word amongst the many he'd written down for the toddler to read -for Northern Ireland was four years old by body at this point in time, eleven or twelve in actual age. He was just learning to read, and Ireland combined that with his Gaelic lessons. The boy stared at it long and hard, spelling it out loud. "D...E...A...R... urgh..."  
Ireland just smiled patiently. "No, that's right! It starts with _dear_. And what does the rest say?"  
"T-H-A-I...R?" North tried hopefully. "Dearthair?" He felt almost as if he broke his tongue over the pronunciation, and was sure he hadn't done that part right. "What's with the line over the 'i'? Isn't that supposed to be a dot?" he asked then, staring questioningly up at his brother. Ireland's smiled didn't waver. "Not always," he answered. "But that's too difficult yet. And you _nearly_ got the pronunciation right." No he hadn't, he could tell that from the way Ireland exaggerated 'nearly' like that. He always did that if he wanted to praise the child for at least trying. "Do you know what it means?" North turned back to the page and stared at it. The word did seem familiar. He'd seen it several times, before he started learning how to read. Back then he'd just pointed at it and asked what it meant. Now he recognized some of the letters, the overall shape of the word. And after he'd dug deep into his memory... "Brother?"  
"Exactly!" Ireland praised him, not so much with that one word as with the brightest smile North had seen on his face that entire day. And he'd smiled a lot. "Since you have so many older brothers, I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea if you know how to spell that word in Gaelic. I'll help you with the pronunciation some other time," he added. "You've studied enough for now, I think. Want to take a break?" North nodded and hopped off his chair immediately, running to the couch and grabbing his favourite book. He and Ireland were nearly done reading in it. He held it out to his big brother as he walked over to North, with big, pleading eyes. Ireland just laughed. "You want to go from reading lessons to actual reading as a _break?_ Well, alright then."

"I just don't get why I need to learn to read!" Northern Ireland mumbled as Ireland had just finished the chapter, and he leaned back against his brother's chest, seated on his lap. "_You_ read to me all the time -why do I need to learn it then?" The older nation chuckled.  
"Because I won't always have the time to read to you," he explained. "The government's going easy on me when you're here, but that won't always be the case. When you get older and you're with me, you'll be able to take care of yourself more and entertain yourself. Right now I'm practically in a single parent-role, and they know that."  
North grimaced at the thought, then grinned, eyes shining with joy. "Parent? Ewww! You're my big brother!" Then he turned around on Ireland's lap and stared up at him. "And how can anyone be a single parent, anyway? Don't people only get children when they're married?"  
"Usually, yes," Ireland answered, staring down at the boy, wondering where this conversation was going. But he was used to it: North couldn't generally stick to one topic for longer than five minutes. "But sometimes people divorce -get un-married, so to say- and then one parent has to look after the children. And sometimes they get children without getting married... but that's all complicated and not important. And by the way," he added then. "I never said anything about being your parent, I only said I'm taking on that role for now! I'm raising you, after all, together with our other brothers." North nodded: he'd understood that part, and had actually made it clear he was only joking, what with his grin and the way he'd said that -_jokingly._ But then again, Ireland couldn't always understand him. He did most of the time though, and North was happy about that. England didn't always get him: but England was sometimes so busy he couldn't really take the time to try and understand him well.

"But can you now please continue reading?" the boy then asked his big brother, smiling wide. "I want to hear what happens next! And tomorrow I'll go to Dylan... so this is the last chance!"  
"You could always take the book to Dylan, you know," Ireland suggested, though he opened said item again on the page where they'd stopped. "He'd love to read it to you, for sure."  
"No," North answered flatly. "I read other things with him: this is my book with you." Ireland chuckled and patted him on the head, ruffling his hair, then continued reading.

When Northern Ireland awoke from this dream, much to his relief, he wasn't left with the empty feeling, the grief that thinking of his memories now did when he was awake. Consciously thinking about Ireland now, he only felt fear and sadness and loneliness at the thought of him dying, him being in a coma like he was. But in his dreams, it was as though Ireland was really there right next to him. And that was exactly the feeling he needed right now, the feeling he'd longed for ever since he'd been taken by the IRA.  
His big brother. His father. Whatever he was. It didn't matter anymore: he loved him just the same.

* * *

**And at least North is coming to terms with not knowing what he is to Ireland, eh? Slowly... he's getting there.  
And England is getting there...  
And someday... they might all be...**

**We'll see. Well, anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you liked this chapter! Please leave a little review!**


	37. Chapter 37

**These chapters are done way too quickly... but does it matter?**

**Crossfire, thanks for yet another review! And I'm sorry for all the sadness (again)! Hehe... And I'm glad you've accepted 'papa' Ireland now, too! It took you about as long as it did North, hm? XD Though, still, I'm not going either way definitively. Not with biological proof, at least.**

**Well then, here you go, chapter 37:**

* * *

Days passed and turned into a week, and then another one. And still Ireland hadn't moved an inch, only _been_ moved to Dublin. And that was where the family and their two southern guests were staying now. They had been visiting their brother every day, not having missed even a single one, even if they started to doubt he even knew they were there. Northern Ireland, finding distraction in talking with New Zealand, was recovering from his trauma slowly, and just as slowly did the family recover from the worst of their shock and grief at the possibility of losing Ireland. No one was looking forward to it, every single one of them loathed the thought still, but they had also decided, all of them, that if the day came their oldest brother would draw his last breath... then so be it. They would survive it.

All but Scotland. He hadn't left Wales' side much those two weeks, and if he wasn't with Wales then he could be found with England or even Australia now. He was never alone these days. But he was also never truly there. He was taking care of himself, but that was just about it, and it was starting to really bother everyone else. But of all the close family around him then, it was Australia that took the initiative. "Al," he began with a sigh on the sixth day he and his little brother were with their cousins. "Al, would ya look a'me for a bit, mate? Just... just look at me." Though not too enthusiastically, Scotland did, and Australia nearly flinched at seeing his empty gaze. "Oi, Allistair, tell me honestly... Have ya even taken the time to let the emotions out? Even a second?" Scotland only sighed and closed his eyes, and he wouldn't even have needed to shake his head like he did a second later. Still he said not a word, and looked away again. Australia wouldn't let it slide as easily, though, to the relief of the other family members gathered in the livingroom with them. "Ah, tough guy act. I thought ya knew better than that, mate. I know some humans still cling to the notion that, as 'real men', we have to stay tough and may not shed a single tear over anything, but we're all old enough to know that's suicide. Especially now. We all know how much ya love your brother, how much ya want him back, how heartbroken ya're everytime we go to see him. And we all feel exactly the same way!" Scotland had gotten tense at this point, but still refused to say a word, clenching his jaws and keeping his eyes closed. "Every one of us has been talking about this," Australia insisted. "We've all talked about him and about our feelings concerning all this. Most importantly, we've all _cried_, letting the emotions out. Dylan has, Arthur has, lil' Coineach, Kiwi an' even _I_ have cried! Goddamn, Allistair, how stubborn are ya gonna be? You need to let it out once in a while, ya know."

"I won't," Scotland answered, as stubbornly as his cousin had just described him to be, fixing his gaze on the wall rather than anyone else in the room.  
"Give me one good reason, an' I'll let ya off."  
Scotland then turned to look at him, sending his younger cousin a glare filled more with despair than anger. "I will not be shedding a single tear," he said slowly, making every word extra clear, "over someone who _isn't dying._" And with that he promptly looked away again and kept his mouth shut. Australia sighed, staring at him a moment longer, clearly dreading the words he had to say next.  
"How do ya know he's not?" he asked, and Scotland stiffened at those words. And not just him -Wales did, too, and Northern Ireland stared at him in horrified silence, wondering how he could even bring it up now. Still, he insisted. "How do ya know for sure he's not dying, Allistair? Tell me. I'd love to know."  
Scotland turned to him again and stared at him as if he were the dumbest creature alive. "He's my big brother," he said simply, "and I have faith in him: he will never give up. The thought won't even cross his mind, no matter what state he is in." _Oh no?_ Northern Ireland could practically see the words burning inside England's mind then, the older nation staring at the Scot in silence. _And what about his suicidal months, back in '16?_ But he dared not say the words aloud. Australia was doing a perfect job by himself, driving the oldest of the six nations to long-overdue tears.  
"I'm not sayin' he will give up, mate," he answered simply, trying very hard to keep his voice steady, as he knew that worked better on Scotland. "I never said he would, and I never will. If he goes, he will die _fighting_, everyone knows that. But even so, dying is not impossible, especially not in his situation. Look, Al, I know that he's your big brother and he's the most important thing in the world to ya, but that alone won't give him some magical power to survive everything." Scotland was biting his lip at this point, eyes closed and hands clenched into fists. Well, Northern Ireland thought, watching with pity, Australia was working a miracle here.

"None of you would even understand," Scotland eventually muttered, his voice barely loud enough for North to hear. Though it seemed clear enough to Australia. "None of you. You all have an older brother besides _him!_ And you," he added, looking at Australia, "you have us as your older cousins! _All_ of you have someone older than you, more mature than you, someone to look up to and someone to lean on even when he's gone. _I don't._ He's all I have!" He clenched his fists even tighter then, turning his gaze to the floor, which was the only place to look at if he didn't want to see anyone at this point. "Of each of you, we know your exact age," he then said, surprising and confusing the others. "But not me. I'm so old, I can only estimate my age. And every single day of every single year I've lived, _he's _been there. Whether he was close or far away, it didn't matter. I always knew he was there for me when I needed him. And the thought that he might not be there anymore soon... is a thought that now crosses my mind for the first time in over two-thousand years." His voice faltered then, and finally it appeared that Australia's approach had worked. "I thought I lost him once," Scotland choked out, his eyes flooding with tears and his shoulders trembling. "I can't lose him again..."  
Beside North, Wales shifted, and he suspected the older nation wanted to go over to Scotland now, but England was already a step ahead of him, sitting down beside his older brother and wrapping his arms around him. Scotland gritted his teeth, trying hard to bite back his tears no matter what, but all that was needed to break down the remaining part of his wall now was for England to simply tell him to let it out for once. Northern Ireland stared, somewhat shocked. He'd known Scotland was as capable of crying, of showing his emotions as any of them was, though he didn't do it much compared to them. He'd seen him cry once before. But somehow he'd never thought his big brother could cry so heartbreakingly as he did then. Ireland was really important to him. _Another reason why you can't leave us,_ Northern Ireland told his oldest brother in silence. _You have to stay, if only for his sake._

* * *

"Eire," came a voice, gently waking him. "Eire, open your eyes, sweetheart." He could see the light falling on his closed eyeslids, keeping him from falling asleep again. But, somehow, he wasn't tired anymore, though only minutes ago he'd felt like he was dragging his feet every step he took. When the voice called him again, he finally listened, and opened his eyes to slits. For a moment, he was blinded by the light of the sun shining right in his face. He closed his eyes again, turned his head a little, away from the light, and tried again. He was then greeted by the sight of a rather familiar white cloth, and, blinking, he looked up. Brittania sat on her knees beside him, looking at him with a mixture of too many emotions to count. Love, sadness, pride, regret... Now that he thought about it, the negative emotions were dominating, though not by much.  
_Well,_ he thought vaguely, sitting up. _At least this explains why I'm not tired anymore... I'm dreaming. _Once he sat, Ireland rubbed his forehead, eyes shut tight. It was strange, but he felt like he had a terrible headache, only without the pain. Some strange sort of pressure on his skull. It felt very uncomfortable, but it didn't hurt. Deciding that this didn't work, he simply stopped and looked at his mother. She met his gaze for a moment, then leaned forward and hugged him. He was stunned for a moment, but then forced himself to relax. "What's the hug for?" he asked her, laughing for a moment. But his laughter faded soon enough, and his expression turned grim. "It's not like we haven't seen each other in a while." No, in fact, they had seen each other very recently, just before he and Scotland had entered the building where North was being kept for the raid to save the boy. Anger flared up in him as he remembered hearing Northern Ireland's screams, saw the indifferent, no, even frustrated expressions of the humans torturing him. He felt no regret killing one of them, and hoped the other was dead, too. But he couldn't quite remember how the day had ended. _Well, I was exhausted, after all._ He must've fallen asleep just as soon as they got home. For all his scolding his younger brother for not resting, in those three days, he'd only slept a meager four hours himself. _But he was sick,_ he tried to justify it to himself, _and I wasn't._

Brittania moved away from him again, but still held him by the shoulders, looking him deep in the eyes. "Oh, Eire..." she whispered to him. "Sweetheart..."  
And then he realised something was off about this dream. Tentatively, he reached for his mother's hand on his shoulder, brushing his fingertips against her skin, then pulling away again in pure shock. "M-mom..." he choked out, a certain pressure on his chest that made breathing difficult. "W-we're not supposed to be able to touch each other in these dreams... are we?" He clearly remembered that she hadn't touched him even once in de hundreds of years he had seen her in dreams. When he looked her in the eyes, saw the pure sadness and grief in her emerald eyes, he felt sick, his insides twisting at the sudden realisation that something wasn't just wrong: it was _horribly wrong._ "I-I... I'm... dead?" he whispered in horror, beginning to tremble. "No, right? I... I can't be... I can't be dead... Am I?"  
Brittania closed her eyes, sighing, before looking up at him again. "Sweetheart-"  
"No!"  
"Eire, please, listen-"  
"Goddammit, no! W-what happened?"  
"Listen to me, Eire!" the ancient country then demanded, raising her voice, and Ireland flinched. She'd never done that, not since she'd been alive. "You're _not_ dead, sweetheart," she told him calmly, still holding him. "But right now, your heart isn't beating-"  
"I _am _dead!"  
"No, you're not. You're in an ambulance, that's all. They're working very hard to get your heart to beat again, rushing you and Northern Ireland to a hospital. You're not dead until they give up, you hear me?" A slight desperation was audible in her voice, and he knew she was as convinced as he was -not at all. "You're not dead." He then took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn't believe her. Why would he be here, if he was alive? How _could_ he be alive, if his heart had stopped?  
"I there anything _I _can do?" he then asked softly. "How can I... make sure I'll live?"  
Brittania stared at him for a moment, calming herself as well. She wanted him there as much as he wanted it -_not._ "You chose the name Cearul for a reason, did you not?" she mumbled eventually. "_Fierce in battle._ You don't give up your battles, my boy. This is the most important battle you'll ever fight -_so fight it._ Your brothers need you." They did, he was sure of it. He wouldn't be able to live without them... surely it was the same for them? _I'll fight,_ he decided, closing his eyes. _I have to. I __**have to **__get back to them!_ For a moment, he felt the warmth of his mother's embrace again, calming him just enough to be able to concentrate, and then he felt a jolt of terrible pain, and darkness engulfed him. His consciousness faded.

That had been a while ago. From then on, everything came in a haze. His senses didn't seem to work properly anymore. Sometimes he heard things, sometimes he smelled things or felt things. But he never saw anything. He was surrounded by darkness, silence, a void. And only rarely did anything penetrate that void and reach him. He had no sense of time at all. It felt like seconds since he'd been with Brittania. It felt like years. Sometimes his mind worked, sometimes he couldn't even think. He didn't know how long he'd been like that. He didn't even know that he was like that. He didn't really know anything anymore.  
"Are you really certain we should do this?" a voice came to him, from far away. Then snippets of memories came, words once spoken to him. Or were they spoken now? _I thought I would be fine with it if you... if you died._ "We have to try sometime. He's recovering well, though slowly. It should be fine." _Sleep well, Cearul. _"We're right beside him, at that. Should anything go wrong..." _I know now that I was wrong._ "Alright. Remove the oxygen mask."  
Suddenly he couldn't breathe. He was choking, his lungs burning. "Come on now, Ireland," came another voice. "_Breathe._" _You bloody wanker, worrying us like that._ "You can do it. Breathe... breathe..." _Promise me you'll come back to us, Cearul._ "Sir, shouldn't we place the oxygen mask again?"  
"Give him a few more seconds. He's a fighter."  
_So fight it!_  
_I should have given you a chance..._  
_So wait for me until then, hm?_  
_But I can't lose you... None of us can._  
_I love you, papa._  
He couldn't give up so easily! Growing desperate, he forced his body to work again, to listen to him as he tried to explain to it how to breathe. _I'ts not hard,_ he told himself. _I've been doing it all my life._ If only he could bring himself to breathe in... "Sir-!"  
"Not yet!"  
Then he gasped. His lungs filled with oxygen, extinguishing the flames that had grown inside it during all the time he couldn't breathe. His whole body felt better now that he was drawing in air again. And for the first time, he felt something vital. His heartbeat.  
"See? Thank goodness. Good job, Ireland." He felt a hand on his shoulder then. "Keep that up now." The hand disappeared again, and he felt somewhat relieved and at the same time disappointed by it. "His time is running out. Now that he can breathe on his own again, maybe the president will reconsider the time limit. He'll need more than a month to wake up."  
_At least in a few weeks you'll be back, hm?_  
_I will be, _he promised. _I will be._

* * *

Northern Ireland watched as Wales carefully moved the razor. He and the Welshman were the only ones in Dublin now. England and Scotland had to go back to their own capitals and resume their work as nations. Northern Ireland was only visiting, and Wales, due to circumstances, was still taking Ireland's place for now. Two months had passed since the accident, and Ireland was now able to breathe on his own. Northern Ireland hadn't felt this good in a long time, his mind flooding with hope as he looked at his brother. He would awake. He would.  
And had only one month left to do so.  
_Dammit._ Whatever he did, that thought could ruin his mood every time. Ireland was recovering, but at so slow a pace, the family was beginning to lose hope that he would wake in time. At least, now that he could breathe, Hillery was willing to rethink his decision. Though no final decision had been made yet.

Right now, Wales sat leaned over Ireland's face, carefully shaving him a bit. After two months, that was getting necessary, and now that the oxygen mask was out of the way, they finally had the opportunity to do so. "He won't appreciate it if we'd have let him grow a beard by the time he wakes up!" Wales had joked that morning as he'd grabbed a razor before they went to see their brother. Northern Ireland had laughed, imagining what that would look like. The thick layer of stubble Ireland had now was weird to him already, and he was glad it would be removed. And now he was watching this as if it were a lesson: he hoped he would grow just a little older yet, and that it wouldn't be too long before he did. At least until he was physically 18 or something like that. He didn't want to be a kid for the rest of his life. But he wouldn't tell his brothers that: they'd only think it was childish, and that was the complete opposite of what he wanted.  
"Ah, damn," Wales muttered under his breath then, and Northern Ireland tried to see what went wrong. "I cut him... ah well, that'll heal within minutes, even if it came from me. Tiny little cut... no problem." Then he laughed, and North chuckled along with him. "Sorry for that, Cearul!"  
"He's not going to like that, Dylan!" North said, still shaking with laughter. "But you're right... And besides, he'll be grateful you even took the time for this." Wales nodded, finished quickly and put his stuff away again. "There," he said to his older brother. "Now you look like yourself again." Then he turned to Northern Ireland, sighing. "I'm afraid we have to leave again soon, lil' brother," he mumbled softly. "I still have a lot of work to do..."  
"I'll help you out," North promised, getting up already and putting his chair away. "Don't worry, we'll have time to spare." Walking over to Ireland, he felt both joy and despair fluttering about inside of him. Wales had described it well: Ireland finally looked like himself again, now that the bandages, the oxygen mask, the bruises, stitches and even stubble was gone. Only the tiny end of a scar was visible just under a lock of his ginger hair. A thin scar ran over the top of his skull, in fact a bald strip, but his hair hid it well enough. Maybe the UK's hope would come true: maybe Ireland would wake up in time for the next EU meeting three months from now, be fit enough to go there, hide the scar, and no one would have to know what had happened. They were worried it would make Ireland look weakened somehow, make him a target of either physical or mental torment from other nations, by giving him a hard time politically or economically for example, when he really couldn't have that. They also worried that it would raise questions they'd rather not answer, England had told him, but when Northern Ireland had asked him what he meant with that, he'd kept his lips tightly shut as if that had just been a slip of the tongue. He was still curious about it, but didn't ask. He knew his brothers wouldn't tell him no matter what if they didn't want to, and _that_ was as clear as day.

He then pushed those thoughts to the back of his head, leaning over Ireland and hugging him, glad that the oxygen mask was gone, which gave him more freedom to hold his brother. "Sleep well, Cearul," he whispered. "I'll be back tomorrow." The he gave a soft kiss, and walked away, Wales following after he'd said goodbye too.

"So what will we do if Cearul isn't well enough for the next EU meeting?" North asked when he and Wales got home -in Ireland's home, that is. They both thought it was weird to be in Dublin when Ireland wasn't there, though now, after two months, they were finally starting to get used to it. "Will one of us take his place, or...?"  
Wales shrugged. "I guess we'll just tell them the economy isn't doing so well, and he's too sick to come. That must be believable, considering his economy _is _terrible right now." He paused then, thinking for a moment, musing to himself, "I wonder if that affects his recovery now, as well...?" But Northern Ireland shook his head, insisting that the economy wouldn't be a good excuse, true as it was.  
"You should have seen him at the previous UN meeting," he told his older brother. "Those hallucinations he had... I don't think anyone will believe it if we use the economy as an excuse. They'll just think it has something to do with what happened then. And besides," he added with a sigh, "he's always been too stubborn to stay home, no matter the condition he's in." Wales nodded solemnly, saying that they would find something. Adding, that if they were lucky, they wouldn't even need an excuse for his absence. Because he would be there.

* * *

Five weeks after that, England and Scotland were in London together. Relieved that his nation could breathe on his own again, the president had given Ireland a month longer to wake up. And after the human had explained his reasons directly to the UK nations, they had forgiven him for his earlier decision: his reasoning had been very good. The people needed their nation again, not a comatose patient.  
At first England had found it almost scary how life just went on without Ireland there, but then he told himself that he'd gone longer without seeing his brother or talking to him before, and this wouldn't be a problem. He was certain that Ireland would recover, so he didn't worry anymore. Well, not about him, anyway. Every day without Ireland was still a hard blow for Scotland, and if it weren't for his younger brothers helping him, he'd have sunk in a dark pit of depression for sure. Now he was merely teetering on the edge of it. But as long as England kept him busy, he seemed to be alright, and that was just what he did. Right now he was keeping an eye on him as they were cleaning up together. They had more or less neglected the house for three weeks, and it was about time they at least got rid of the dust. Scotland didn't say a word as he worked, completely concentrated on his task. He probably didn't even notice England staring at him every few minutes. To the Englishman, it was still a bittersweet sight to see Scotland wear Ireland's rosary, his oldest posession. He was keeping it safe for their brother, hoping he would soon be wearing it again, but refused to give it to him before he woke up. "He needs to earn it back," he'd said to England once, the only thing he'd said on the matter.

"Coineach is doing well, isn't he?" he asked the Scot casually, wanting to just talk, instead of hearing only silence all the time. "He lets Dylan cook now, I heard. And he has no trouble with any of the knives anymore, not even the ones with the size of a dagger." He sighed then, adding, "the only thing he still has trouble with according to Dylan, is electricity. He refuses to touch cables of any kind. But he's doing very well, right?"  
"He is," Scotland mumbled absent-mindedly. "I'm proud of the lad..." But even so, England knew he was speaking the truth. He _was_ really proud of Northern Ireland, and very happy that he was recovering from his trauma so quickly. He was just busy now, that was all, England was sure.  
"You know," he told him then, smirking, "you can concentrate _too much _on something. Shall we just take a break for now?"  
But Scotland shook his head. "We're doing this now," he said. "Might as well finish, right?" England sighed. "You know what? I'll just make some tea now. And you don't have to take a break if you don't want to, no worries. But _I_ will."

But he'd only just set the kettle on the stove to heat, when the phone rang, and annoyed, he picked it up, expecting work-related stuff. 80% of the time it was work-related stuff. But instead, he heard Wales' voice. "Arthur?" he asked, and England hummed, listening intently. He thought he could hear something on the background, though he wasn't sure yet what. "Is Allistair with you?"  
"Yes, he's in the livingroom. Why?"  
"Get him with you, he needs to hear this, too." Then England realised what it was he heard on the background, and his heart sank. Wales was calling him, telling him to get Scotland to listen as well, it was something important they both needed to hear, and... "Is Coineach crying?" he asked, worried. Wales only hummed and said that, yes, he was. But he also added that England shouldn't worry._ Yeah, right. _This was it, then. Ireland was dead. His hands beginning to shake, he called out to Scotland. The older nation came running to him, nervous after hearing England's tone. Shaking, the English nation held the phone inbetween them, saying to Wales that Scotland was there now. They were ready for the news.  
"Okay, so I just got a call from the hospital, and..." Dammit, dammit, dammit. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't happening. "...well, would you be here by tomorrow, please?" No, no, no! England willed him to shut up with all the willpower he had in him. He wasn't ready for this new yet. He couldn't hear this, not now. Not ever.  
But his fears didn't become reality then. In fact, it was quite the opposite. And now he realised why Northern Ireland was crying in the background. He was crying in joy.  
"He's awake."

* * *

**He's awake!**

**And, honestly, that part from Ireland's point of view was _hard! _I wasn't sure how to write something from a comatosed's PoV... so I first had this checked by my father before posting it. I hope it somehow makes sense...?**

**Oh well, I'm just glad Ireland's awake. At least now I can move on to the next point! XD**

**I hope you liked it (and that this healed the heartbreak of the last three chapters, Crossfire) and please leave a review!**


	38. Chapter 38

**Hi, I'm back again with another chapter!**

**First of all, Crossfire and Coffeeandart, thanks for the reviews! Oh, I could never kill Ireland off... I like him too much myself!  
And, well, I can only say that things will be a bit brighter again from here on. The darkest part of Trouble is now over (though the last few chapters still won't be fluffy humour)**

**Also, Crossfire, those last words really mean a lot to me. Thank you so much! And yes, I already have the next part of my Historical Hetalia series in mind, thought it will still need a bit of planning. All I can say now is that it will be two stories again, with the titles _'Cross your Heart_' and _'Hope to Die_', or the first part will simply be '_The Cross_', and then I'll need to think of a second title.**

**But I'm getting all kinds of plans for that one as the end of Trouble draws nearer, so the gap between the two probably won't be long.**

**Well now, on to Trouble chapter 38, then, right?**

* * *

Right the next morning, from the very moment visiting hours began, the entire United Kingdom was in the hospital, getting instructions and information from one of the doctors working on Ireland before they were even allowed near him. "He's still rather weak," the human explained to them. "Yesterday, he couldn't even eat, and slept again within hours from waking up." _Well,_ Wales thought with a sigh, _that does explain why Coineach and I couldn't come visit him yesterday._ "Today he managed to eat a little with breakfast, though nothing solid yet. We've examined him, and we can conclude that he does not remember anything about the incident or the days prior to it. Though, with the head-injury he had, that's no surprise. He's trying to hide his loss of memory from us, however, so we have no way of telling just how much he remembers of the past months." The brothers nodded, deciding it was a good thing he didn't seem to remember any of it. The past year had been horrible for him: the less he knew, the better. "And lastly, I think it would be best if only two of you actually visit for now. He wouldn't be able to handle all four at the same time. Unless he requests for the other two to come as well, two will be more than enough. And please keep it calm." The four nodded, promised they would, and made their way over to his chamber.  
"Well," Wales said with a smile to his brothers, "I think it is clear who the first two visitors should be, don't you?" England nodded, looking up at Scotland beside him with shining eyes. The Scot seemed to be in the clouds, soaring higher with every step he got closer to his brother. He'd been waiting for this way too long. Northern Ireland was practically bouncing through the hallways, looking more like a child than he had in years. His appearance seemed to have dropped from a fourteen-year-old to an eleven-year-old through sheer joy and relief. "We can wait, can't we, Artie?"  
Again England nodded. "Yes. If anyone needs to see him as soon as possible, it's them." Then he turned to look at Wales, smiling wide. "And besides, we'll be able to look at him through a window, see him sitting there, _awake,_ and that's enough for me, really." Then he chuckled for a moment, saying softly: "Though, I honestly can't believe how anyone can sleep for fourteen weeks and wake up _exhausted_. I'd love to know what he did during his coma."  
"That's not uncommon, Arthur," Wales answered, laughing a bit himself. Finally they had reason for laughter again. "Coma isn't the same as sleep. And just think of how hard he fought to even breathe at first -just staying alive must've been hard." He sighed, but not even that thought could ruin his mood now. "Poor guy..."

Four hearts fluttered when the nations reached Ireland's room, saw their brother lying there, eyes open, talking to a nurse that was checking up on him. "A-are you two sure you're okay with us going in first?" Scotland asked, not taking his eyes off his older brother. Both England and Wales insisted that they were, and told them to hurry up and enter already. They tentatively opened the door and announced that they were there. Ireland looked up the moment he heard them, staring at his little brothers in surprise. "Y-you're here early," he stammered, not sounding quite as happy as Scotland and North had thought he would. But they couldn't even be bothered by that anymore. But then Ireland smiled, a tired smile, not exactly one of pure happiness, but a smile nonetheless, and for just a moment, his brothers couldn't even care less. "I'm glad you came."  
"Of course we did, you idiot," Scotland choked out, unable to speak clearly in pure relief, smiling wider than he had in ages. He then walked over to Ireland's side, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it gently, trembling with joy. Ireland chuckled at this. "I'm not made of glass, you know," he said, spreading his arms welcomingly, waiting for his brother's embrace, which came barely a heartbeat later, so enthusiastic, it knocked the air out of him. "A-ah, l-lil' brother-" he choked out, grinning wide, practically laughing. "M-may I at l-least bre-breathe?" Immediately, Scotland's grip on his brother slackened, and he apologized. The hug lasted about a minute longer, and when the two brothers let go of each other again, Scotland heard soft sniffling behind him. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Northern Ireland practically on the verge of tears. The boy had waited so long for this moment -even longer than Scotland had, though only by a few days. He stepped aside quickly to let him through, and North slowly walked over to them, stopping beside Scotland, unsure what to do despite to perfect example he got only seconds ago. Scotland patted him on the shoulder softly. "He's back," he whispered reassuringly. "It's not a dream, laddie. He's back." Then, finally, North dared to get a little closer. All the while, Ireland had waited patiently, smiling warmly at his little brother. But Northern Ireland couldn't do much more than hold his brother's hand before bursting into tears, and not only of happiness and relief at seeing him again.

Startled by this, Ireland flinched before relazing again. "Hey, lad," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper, "come here..." He pulled North a little closer, and the boy leaned against him as he cried, but this just didn't really work yet. Ireland looked up at the nurse, who was just finishing her work, and asked softly, "It's not a problem, is it, if he lies down beside me for just a moment? We'll be careful, don't worry." The woman nodded, saying that it was perfectly alright so long as the IV in his arm wouldn't be pulled somehow. North didn't need to hear more before getting on the bed beside Ireland, hugging him tightly and crying against his shoulder. Ireland didn't seem all too comfortable like that, but he said nothing, trying his best to comfort Northern Ireland.  
"I'm so sorry!" the boy sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Cearul, I-"  
"Sorry for what?" Ireland interrupted him softly, sounding confused. Scotland stared at him in surprise: he honestly didn't seem to know what the boy was talking about. He kept his mouth shut, but decided to watch his older brother very carefully from here on. Something wasn't entirely right...  
North sniffled, letting go of Ireland and staring at him in shock. Then he blinked away his tears and simply answered, "F-for not giving you a chance... when I should have. I decided that... well, Cearul, I-I don't think this is something we should talk about _now_, when you're still only just recovering. J-just know that I forgave you, and I hope you will be able to forgive me, too." Ireland nodded, saying that he did, though he still sounded a little confused, and his gaze betrayed how hard he had to try to even figure out what the boy was talking about. Scotland sighed. It seemed Ireland had forgotten more than the doctors had thought until now, though he was certain this would heal. He might not regain all of his memories, he decided, but that would probably be for the best.

Eventually, when North had calmed down and looked happy again, Ireland just gave in. Letting his shoulders hang in disappointment and looking at his little brothers apologetically, he asked, "I-I'm sorry, but... did we fight over anything? What you said just now suggested that, but... but I don't recall anything like that." But North shook his head, smiling warmly at him, reassuringly answering, "No, we didn't fight. Not too seriously, at least. Things were just a little... tense between us for a long time, and I never got the chance to apologize before you... you know." Ireland seemed to accept that answer without a problem, smiling as well now that he knew things were alright, saying that he was glad their problems were solved -adding, that since he didn't even remember most of it, of course he had forgiven North. But Scotland felt a pang of worry at this. If he didn't even recall what happened thirteen years ago... No, that probably wasn't it. Northern Ireland had made it sound like _he_ had done something wrong, after all, while 1968 had been Ireland's fault entirely. He must've thought the boy was referring to something esle, something that had happened more recently.  
"I'm sorry," the Irishman said eventually, when the two younger nations had each grabbed a chair and sat down beside him. "I know my memory isn't exactly clear right now, but I'm certain that, given some time, things will start to come back... I've also been told it would, so that makes me even more certain. U-until then... I'm sorry if I don't always get what you're talking about, like just now." He then turned to look at Scotland, looking about to say something, when he spotted Wales and England standing outside the room. He looked at them for a moment in silence, then a tiny smile played on his lips. "They can come in, too, if they want," he told Scotland, nodding in their direction. "So long as things won't get too noisy, that is." Scotland only nodded and said that he would get them, getting up then and walking out of the room.

Outside, he decided that first, he should tell both his younger brothers what he'd concluded after his minutes with Ireland. "Considering he woke up only yesterday," he said after explaining Ireland's memory was... 'fuzzy', to say the least, "it's not unnatural. In a few days, I think he should already remember more, so we shouldn't worry. I really only want to say... well, it would be best not to remind him of any bad things. If he doesn't bring them up himself, that might mean he's forgotten them. And if it's not that-"  
"-then we still shouldn't forget that today is a day for celebration," Wales interrupted him. His smile hadn't faded for even a heartbeat during Scotland's explanation, and it wasn't about to, either. "I'm not worried, Allistair. As you said, this is natural, considering the injury that brought him in this state. Now let's just go in and talk to our brother again."  
Ireland was waiting for them when they went in, smiling warmly, glad to have all of his younger brothers with him again. He hadn't been aware of not having talked to them for fourteen weeks, but he could only imagine what it must have been like for them, visiting him daily for over three months without every hearing a word from him. Wales greeted him with a hug like Scotland had, while England, like Northern Ireland, first needed to hear from his brother himself that it was okay before he even dared touch him. Wales then, with Ireland's consent, brushed a strand of his brother's ginger hair from his forehead, inspecting the scar that ran there, beginning little more than a centimeter above his brow. "It's thin," he told his brother, "but still very visible... of course, right now your hair is covering it, but you usually have it shorter than this." He inspected it a moment longer, thinking with pure concentration visible in his expression. "Would you rather keep it covered up? Keep it hidden? I'm sure we can think of something if you do." Ireland laughed softly, pushing his hand away again.  
"Let's not worry about that yet," he told him, smiling. "First I have to get out of here again, hm?" After that, the five brothers didn't talk too much anymore, the UK just happy to hear Ireland's voice again, Ireland glad to see his brothers were so happy to see him. But as the minutes passed, his responses to what they said gradually grew softer, the words more dragged. Not even an hour had passed before he sat there with his eyes closed, hardly answering anymore whenever one of his brothers asked something, and the four just looked at each other, wordlessly agreeing that they should go home again now.  
It was Scotland that gently shook Ireland, and the Irishman blinked open his eyes again, staring up at him. "Ah... sorry," he apologized immediately, biting back a yawn. "I'm just... really tired, sorry."  
"We know," Scotland answered softly. "That's why we're going home now."  
Ireland looked at him for a moment longer, gratitude shimmering in his eyes. "Thanks," he mumbled. "The president will be coming this afternoon, too, and I'd better be rested by then..." A tiny smirk played on his lips, and he added softly, "Maybe, if I can convince him I'm recovering quickly, I'll be allowed to come home soon!"  
"And he'll force you to work again, too, if you do that" Wales added with a grimace. "Let's not do that, Cearul. Take all the time you need, alright? Don't push yourself now." Ireland shook his head and promised he wouldn't, but his brothers, knowing Ireland's stubborness was matched only by that of Wales, weren't convinced he would keep that promise. But so long as he didn't push himself _too much_, it should be alright. "Also, Cearul," Wales then began, "if there's anything you need from home, just tell us, and we'll take it with us next time we come, alright?"  
Ireland gave a tiny, drowsy nod, his smile still on his lips. None of them could really stop smiling right now. "Thanks, but I'm alright here. H-however," he added quickly, "I suppose... some actual clothes would be nice. I think I've been stuck in this paper dress long enough now." England chuckled at this, promising they would bring some the next day, said goodbye together with the other United Kingdom members, then left again. They looked back just before Ireland's room would be out of sight, and saw Ireland already asleep again, still smiling, looking completely at ease after having spoken to his brothers.

* * *

The next day they visited again, and Ireland already seemed to be doing better than he had the first day. The day after that, he was sitting in a chair in his room instead of being in bed, and two days after that, they found him already waiting for them in the lobby. That night however, thanks to the economy, he developed a slight fever, but it was under control already the next morning. And as he had said he would, he remembered certain things more clearly with each passing day, his memory restoring almost as quickly as the rest of him was recovering. He still had no idea what had happened to get him in a coma, and neither did Northern Ireland, and the nations of Great Britain had decided it was best like that, and they would never tell them. It would be their secret until the end of time.  
All tension between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland seemed to be gone now, though the Troubles raged on. The two personifications at least had forgiven each other for their earlier mistakes. And though North hadn't said a word about it anymore since Ireland had woken up, the older Irish nation recalled a few things he'd heard his brothers say while he'd been in his coma rather clearly.  
_I love you, papa._  
He didn't say anything about it, either, convinced now that one day, North would say the same to him again, this time while he was awake and conscious. He knew he was Northern Ireland's brother, but he also knew he could also be his father whenever the boy wanted it. And that solved a lot between the two of them. "The only thing left to do now," North had said cheerfully one day, "is to find a solution to the national Troubles as well, like we did for our personal troubles." Ireland had agreed to that, and they promised they would both work hard to find one from now on.  
Fifteen days after waking up, Ireland was allowed to go home again, though he still needed a regular check-up at the hospital. But he was doing just fine considering the state he'd been in only three weeks prior, and soon enough, that ended as well.

The EU meeting the family had been dreading all the weeks Ireland had been in a coma came little less than six weeks after Ireland came home again, and though they had insisted their brother should take it easy, Ireland went there anyway. When they got there, a surprise none of them had even slightly expected waited for them.  
"Ireland!" Denmark exclaimed when he saw the older nation and his four brothers enter the conference hall. "Dude, we thought for sure you wouldn't come to this meeting!"  
The five British-Irish nations halted, staring at the Scandinavian wide-eyed. Why would they think that? England hoped it had to do with what happened at the UN months before, but when other nations greeted his older brother as well, his heart sank. They knew. Each and every one of them knew what had happened. But how? "Well," Spain said approvingly, patting Ireland on the shoulder, "we can now honestly say that getting old won't make you weaker _at all._ On the contrary!" Italy Romano smirked, adding, "We've kinda come to call you 'Europe's grandpa' for a few years already. You're the oldest among us... No offense." Then he smacked Spain on the back of his head and scolded him for being so rude, the Spaniard protesting that Romano was as rude as him, if not worse. Austria sighed in annoyance at the two, then went to congratulate Ireland as well. "You really pulled through," he said with a smile. "Good job."  
"Veh~, we should celebrate after the meeting!"  
"_Nein,_ Italy," West Germany protested to his friend. "Ve don't have zhe time for zhat. Maybe on zhe last day, however..."

Ireland just stared at all of the European nations welcoming him back, congratulating him on his recovery, agreeing with Italy Veneziano that there should be a celebration -adding, to avoid West's anger, that they should wait until they had time, however. Then he turned to his brothers, wanting to ask them who had told anyone, because _someone _had broken their promise that all this would stay secret. But all four of them seemed as baffled as him, not at all comprehending what was going on and how the entire EU knew about this. Then they heard a familiar laugh from their left, and all five brothers turned around at the same time. France was sitting there, staring at their confused expressions with a warm smile. "Zhis would be my fault," he said with a wink. "Zhough, zhe one zhat's really to blame is _mon cher Mathieu_. But zhe poor boy just needed someone to talk to... 'e was really distraught at zhe zhought you might die, Cearul. Ah, well, you know me. Once I 'ear some juicy gossip, I spread it."  
"_Juicy gossip?_" England echoed angrily. "How _dare_ you call something as horrible as what happened _juicy goss-_"  
"I didn't mean it like zhat, _cher!_" France protested immediately. "Don't always take everyzhing I say zhe wrong way. But I might 'ave told Spain and the Italies, and zhey might 'ave told Austria, West Germany and Belgium, who in turn... well, you know what I mean."  
"Let's not forget I was aware already," Netherlands added from not too far away. "Also through Matt. But my information needs to be bought, so I didn't participate in the gossiping." Then he turned to look over his shoulder at Ireland. "Well, good job at recovering so quickly, _Ierland._ That's quite an achievement, from what I heard."  
"T-thanks," Ireland stammered, still not really getting it. This was because of Canada? If anyone would tell others despite the promise they made, he'd thought it would be America, or else Australia. But he just pushed those thoughts away for now, took a deep breath, and thanked the other nations, loud enough for all of them to hear. But then he requested they'd all shut up about it now, and just get on with the meeting. And when finally the last nations came as well, each of them giving Ireland a pat on the shoulder or a quick thumbs up before taking place behind their desks, the meeting began.

"Well," Scotland mumbled somewhere halfway through the meeting, "this isn't quite what we expected would happen, huh?" England huffed, and Wales nodded. "I honestly thought they would think of you as weak, an easy target, because of what happened," the Scot went on, looking at Ireland. The older nation only shrugged.  
"Well, he _is_ the first nation -in Europe at least- to have been in a coma for over three months and pull through like this," England mumbled in response. "So it's not all that strange... Though I didn't see this coming, either." Ireland shook his head, adding that he also hadn't. But he seemed happy about it, so the others didn't have the heart to complain. Scotland just stared at him every now and then during the meeting, beyond happy to see his brother like this. He'd missed that sparkle in his eyes whenever something good happened. He'd missed _him_.  
_Never again,_ he vowed that day._ Never again am I going to let anything bad happen to my brothers._

* * *

"Well, the only thing that happened while you were gone was the Glasdrumman ambush on July 17," Northern Ireland told his older brother, handing him some files on the matter. "By the PIRA. They've really calmed down since a few years, haven't they? 'Long War', they called it, right?" Ireland nodded. He vaguely recalled something like that. Now that he was discussing the Troubles with North and both their leaders, he wished he had more memories of his time within the IRA, but some things just seemed to have disappeared for good. "I should have made more notes," he sighed eventually. "Then at least, I wouldn't have lost _this _much."  
"And what if you had, and they'd found those notes?" North then asked, staring at his brother. "What do you think they would have done, then? You're lucky that they think you're dead now. And besides, you would have had to leave soon, anyway: you've been a member for years, and without aging... it would've gotten suspicious sooner or later."  
"I know, I know," Ireland sighed in response, still a little disappointed in his lack of information. He knew he had more, before the accident, but now... "I just wish I could be of more help."

"They may have calmed down," North's leader said, muttering, "but that doesn't solve the problem. They're waiting to strike again, maybe with another Bloody Sunday or Bloody Friday -something as horrible as that." North flinched at the idea. He could practically feel the scar that ran over his heart sting again as he remembered the many bombs of that day. He shook his head, though it was more that he hoped such a thing would never happen again than that he was convinced it wouldn't. Ireland gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and North nodded. It wouldn't be that bad anymore, they both knew it: it wouldn't last long enough anymore to be that bad again. Their two leaders stared at them, clearly wondering what had happened between the two. Everyone had also noticed some changes in Ireland since he'd woken up from his coma. For one, he seemed a little less confident, and was definitely more prone to over-apologizing if he did something wrong. He seemed to think his brothers were bothered by his slight amnesia more than they really were, and thought that was his fault, like he should simply work harder to remember everything. But that would never work, and that was what they kept telling him. And whenever they did that, he would only apologize _again_ for being so stupid. All in all, he seemed to have become more... timid somehow. But, horrible as it was to think that, the United Kingdom could only think of how this change could be used to their advantage -and Ireland's own as well- as he would probably be more willing to accept their terms in peace negotiations, if only to please them. The nations' leaders could see this, too, and while the UK was happy about it, Ireland's president was less so. He would definitely not be as willing to accept every term the UK threw their way as Ireland would be.

_And that's probably for the best,_ Northern Ireland thought as he stared at Ireland. _He needs to gain some confidence in his own decisions and rights as a nation again._ It was still a strange sensation, the feeling that _he_ was taking care of _Ireland,_ and not the other way around._ It's just until he's fully recovered again,_ he told himself. _And I'm happy to do it._  
The meeting lasted a little longer, and near the end of it, Northern Ireland had a hard time containing his anger. Ireland's president had scolded the older nation for forgetting certain things more than once that day, and Ireland had guilt and shame written all over his face by the end of the meeting. _He can't help it! _North wanted to yell. _Blame the person that nearly killed him instead!_ But then he took a deep breath and calmed himself, trying to look at the situation as the human would do, and then his anger and frustration were completely justified. Who _would_ be able to stay calm, when they were trying to find a solution to the most difficult conflict in ages, and their nation just stared at them with a look that clearly said he had no idea what they were talking about? _In that position, _he thought, _I'd have gotten angry even sooner._ But it didn't help Ireland's confidence, only served to weaken it. After the meeting, the boy immediately went to his own leader to ask if he could stay and talk to Ireland a bit longer before leaving, and he could.

He found the older nation sitting in a chair, staring into space. Cautiously he walked over to him, first checking his eyes to see if he could figure out any emotion in them to see how he was doing, then sitting down beside him when he decided it was alright. He placed his hand lightly on Ireland's arm, and at this simple notion, the Irishman sighed and looked away. "It's okay, Cearul, really," North said encouragingly, but Ireland shook his head.  
"It's not, Coineach," he mumbled. "It's _really _not. I should know all these things, but-"  
"It's not like you shot _yourself_," North protested, staring at his older brother intently. "You can't help what happened, Cearul, and you can't help that your memory is just a little fuzzy sometimes. It'll be better soon, you'll see."  
But again Ireland shook his head, sighing again. And just then he looked as lost as North had ever seen him only after the accident. "It's been a while, lad," he mumbled. "It's been a while and I don't remember everything yet. I'm beginning to doubt I'll ever remember everything again." Then he turned to look at Northern Ireland, and the young teen felt a stab of pity at seeing his lost, sad gaze. "It's... it's worse than I wanted any of you to think. Do you recall how I didn't call any of you by your names, the first day you came to visit me in the hospital? That's because, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't figure out what your human names were. All I really remembered was that we never called each other by our nation names, so I didn't. Oh, it's not like I didn't remember who you were," he added quickly upon seeing the shock and sadness in North's eyes. "Of course I did, and I was really happy to see you again. But... but it took me until later in the afternoon to remember your names." He forced a tiny smile onto his face, and gently ruffled Northern Ireland's hair a bit. "I'm sorry, Coineach," he said softly. "Perhaps I... shouldn't have told you this."  
"No, it's okay," North lied quickly, shaking his head. In all honesty, he was devastated at hearing just how much his brother had lost. But then he tried to remind himself of the many memories he'd gotten back over the weeks, to cheer himself up again. "This, too, isn't your fault. The only one to blame is the person who did this to you. And the two humans are dead." He fell silent for a moment, finally feeling a tiny spark of joy in his heart as he added in a whisper, "Which reminds me... Samuel must have really gotten away, then, if there were only two when you and Allistair came. I still hate him, but... well, I'm happy for him, anyway."

When he looked up at Ireland again, he saw the older nation was staring at him, his pale blue eyes shimmering with emotion. When he asked what was wrong, Ireland only smiled. "You're such an amazing person, Coineach. You know that?"  
"Why?"  
"Because of how much you care about others."  
And then the boy smiled, feeling his heart fluttering with joy, and he swung his arms around his older brother. "You told me the exact same thing once before," he whispered. "Do you remember?" It was silent for a moment, but eventually Ireland nodded and hugged him back. "I do," he answered, holding his little brother tightly. "And I still mean every word of it."

* * *

**Haaah... it's refreshing to write sweet scenes like these again XD I'm going to try and keep this up.**

**Oh, I can also tell that about Part 3 of Historical Hetalia: I will try to play around with humour and maybe even a little romance in that one, more than in Rising and Trouble. Though you can't expect a non-serious story from me XD especially not when I try to keep it historically accurate.**

**Well, I hope you liked it, and thanks for reading!**


	39. Chapter 39

**And finally I have a new chapter... *sigh* This feels like it took me an eternity. Writer's Block couldn't strike at a worse time, in the few final chapters of this story! (I don't know how many chapters are left for sure, but I don't think it will reach any higher than 45 at most)**

**And so I bombarded this chapter with history, wasn't feeling up to research, procrastinated while at the same time my mind and fingers itched to write again... Also, since I filled this chapter with history, be prepared for a massive time-skip. Just sayin'.**

**I know I said I had pretty much everything planned out, but... Well, things were written a little differently than I had at first planned, so my original plans are now cast aside. So yeah... Also, school will be starting again in less than 2 weeks, and I'm not sure if I can finish Trouble before that like I had planned.**

**But on a brighter note, I have started writing _Cross Your Heart_, and though I might wait about a month or so after finishing Trouble before I post that, the first few chapters will be done well ahead of time! (I have a very selective case of Writer's Block: it allows me to write CYH but not Trouble... grrrr)**

**Anyway, Crossfire, that review got me beyond happy! I'm afraid I couldn't keep the sweetness up long, but this chapter isn't all dark at least...**

**Well, here you go:**

* * *

A few more weeks passed, and the end of the year came closer. Some Irish people had been on a hunger strike that year, and some of them had died, after which new measures had to be taken. But right now, the family didn't worry about any of that. Right now, they were planning their celebrations for Christmas. It would be a somewhat special one: the 60th Christmas since Northern Ireland's birth, as well as the first after nearly losing Ireland. They would make an extra celebration for both of those things. But most of all, it was the first Christmas that Sealand would be allowed to spend with his family, and stay for a week at that. England hadn't been so happy since Ireland had woken up, yet he was twitchy with nervousness everytime it was mentioned. Sealand still didn't seem to have forgiven him, and he didn't expect him to ever forgive him. He didn't want him to, as he didn't deserve forgiveness -at least not yet. Not until he'd made it up to his son.  
Scotland was almost as happy, 'secretly' preparing all sorts of little things to persuade little Sealand to give his father a chance. But nothing, he made sure, that would force him to. It had to come naturally, he'd said. "But there's no rule stating that nature can't get a little help," he'd added with a grin. Meanwhile Wales was in Edinburgh with his older brother already, preparing things for the family dinner and decorating just a little bit, after convincing Scotland that _a little bit _of decoration never hurt anybody. Scotland most dreaded having to clean up again afterwards, which was the reason he never decorated anything, as it saved him a lot of work.  
And during that time, Northern Ireland was giving the oldest of the family a Crash Course about Sealand, as Ireland didn't seem to understand much of what they'd been saying when they talked about the boy. He kept quiet in front of England, but the other three were well aware that 'Sealand' might well be Chinese to him. "I just... can't get over the fact I forgot my_ nephew,"_ Ireland sighed, though he had to admit that now that he was talking about the boy with North, he did recall a few things. "So when the drug incident happened..."  
"They were seperated, yes," North answered, nodding. "And again, you shouldn't blame yourself. Peter and you were never really close. He, er... well, to be honest with you, he never really thought of you as an uncle."  
"Thanks to Arthur, no doubt," Ireland muttered, though he wasn't angry. Though things between him and England were only improving over the years, they still weren't the closest of brothers. Ireland himself had wanted to keep Northern Ireland and England apart at one point, he wasn't surprised England would want to do the same with his own son, especially since that boy was his without a doubt. The two Irish nations still weren't certain. "Well," Northern Ireland eventually said. "Just... don't talk much to him, only greet him and talk back if he talks to you. If you do that, neither Arthur nor Peter will know. No worries, it will be all right." Ireland only nodded and smiled, saying that he didn't doubt that. It would be a celebration, not a time for worries.

"Uncle Allistair!" Sealand greeted his uncle as he came running in a few days later. He practically jumped on him and swung his arms around his neck. "You have a lot of snow already, huh?" Scotland chuckled, nodded, and greeted the boy as well. "And do you have any snow as well, Peter?" he asked the mirconation cheerfully. But Sealand sighed and shook his head. "I did," he answered, "for a moment. But it all got cleaned away. It's bad for the steel. And the sea just won't freeze, so I can't go iceskating!"  
"But you cannot iceskate, anyway, Peter," England said gently, smiling warmly at his son. "It would take you some time before you could -and then most of the ice would've been gone already, unfortunately. And the sea won't freeze because-"  
"I can _learn!_" Sealand protested fiercely, glaring at his father. "Jerk!"  
Ireland flinched at his fierceness, and leaned over to Wales, asking, "Was it always this bad?"  
"Ever since the drugs, yes," the younger nation whispered back quickly. "Now stop talking like that, and don't mention it to Artie. He's really unhappy about it." Ireland quickly nodded and kept quiet about it from there on, watching as the boy completely walked past his father and greeted Wales instead. The Welshman smiled and greeted him back as if nothing had happened. Then the boy went and hugged Northern Ireland, who also acted as if everything was completely normal for the sake of his little nephew. Only England stared at him, his eyes full of pain and regret. And Ireland, who had to get used to this all over again. When Sealand next stood in front of him, staring up at his oldest uncle, he forced a smile onto his lips as well. "Hi there, Peter," he said. "Merry Christmas, eh, lad?"  
"Yeah, you too," Sealand mumbled, narrowing his eyes. "Are you really feeling better again?" he asked then. "Jerk England told me you were sick for a long time."  
"Sick?" Ireland echoed, surprised for a moment. That was an odd way to describe being in a coma and barely hanging onto life. "Er, yes, more or less. But I'm okay again now, your father was right about that." Sealand nodded, accepting that answer without any further questions, then dashed off into the livingroom, sitting down on the couch and calling Northern Ireland to watch tv with him a bit. North just sighed and left, saying that 'uncle-y duty called', looking bored already. Ireland just stared at the miniature blue-eyed England sitting on the couch beside North, inspecting him a little. How on Earth had he forgotten about that boy? "So..." he mumbled eventually. "None of you bothered to tell him what was really going on, I see?"  
"Artie tried," Scotland sighed, shrugging. "But he wouldn't let him explain. And Dylan and I simply respected Artie's wish not to try as well, and let _him_ explain it all. So in the end, he must've thought you had a bad cold or something."

The rest of the evening passed by without too much trouble. Scotland's first plan to get Sealand to become closer to England again, which consisted of making the two sit beside each other during dinner, didn't work. All that time, Sealand didn't look at his father, and whenever England asked him something, he wouldn't answer. Plan two, talking about the boy's early childhood (carefully avoiding any mention of anything that had gone wrong between Sealand and England then, which was plenty) only served to annoy him. And just when the Scot wanted to try his third plan, England figured it out and stopped him. "You're only making it worse, Allistair," he sighed. "I... I appreciate your efforts, but you're not helping."  
But Scotland shook his head, insisting that the boy was bound to change his mind at hearing the option he would give him next, and walked over to his nephew. "Say, Peter," he said with a bright smile. "How would you like to be adopted?" England paled considerably at hearing that, and the sheer stupidity of it drove even Wales to rolling his eyes and grunting. But the Scot was convinced that, at the thought of getting another parent, the boy would realise that he loved his father after all and didn't want to lose him. So he wasn't really prepared when Sealand shrugged and answered that he was fine with it. "W-well," Scotland stammered, taken aback by his nephew's bluntness in this matter. "Ehm... well, you kind of already have a father, so-"  
"I kind of _don't_."  
At hearing that, England turned around and left silently, and North followed him quickly. Scotland got pulled away by Wales, and was then being scolded for being so damn stupid. But they all knew the Scot had bee drinking, and was probably more than 'a little tipsy', as he himself had said earlier. They couldn't think of any other reason why he would decide to speak without even thinking for a split second. And with his four younger brothers busy, Ireland sat down beside his nephew, who sighed and stared ahead angrily, his arms crossed over his chest. "Hey, Peter," he began casually, not even looking at the boy. "May I ask you something?" Sealand hummed in approval, and Ireland just took a deep breath. "Alright then. Have you even tried to forgive Artie yet?" When he saw the micronation stare at him wide-eyed, ready to protest, he quickly added, "I'm not angry with you or anything. And I won't be angry or disappointed even if you say no. I'm just honestly curious if you've tried."  
Sealand was silent for a moment, then sighed again and shook his head. "I haven't," he confessed softly. "And I don't want to."  
Ireland nodded and answered calmly, "Okay then. You don't have to forgive him, you know. But can you accept that he loves you, that he really cares about you? That is not the same as forgiving," he explained when Sealand was once again about to protest. "That is acknowledging that someone is sorry, that someone cares about you and wants to make it up to you. Accepting an apology doesn't necessarily mean you forgive someone." The young boy seemed to consider this for a moment, and eventually he nodded. "I know he loves me," he said to his uncle. "He told me he did, and I know it wasn't a lie. And I also never lied when I said I love him, too. But I'm still angry. He's a jerk, but I do love him."  
Ireland smiled, patting his nephew on the head then, and thanking him for being so honest. "And could you maybe tell your father this, too?" he added softly. "He's really, really sorry, and he thinks you hate him... It would be a very nice Christmas present to hear that you do not."  
"But Santa gives the presents, right?" Sealand asked, blinking, confused. Ireland quickly nodded and said that he did, but people can also give each other presents. Once again the boy took his word for it, got up from the couch and went upstairs, going after his father. Ireland only stared after him until he disappeared from sight, glad that he had been able to help. Wales and Scotland, on the other side of the room, only stared at him instead, surprised by the scene they had just witnessed. "How'd you do that, Old Man?" Scotland asked eventually, tilting his head a little -another sign he was drunk, for he never did that otherwise. Ireland just shrugged and said it wasn't important. The only important thing was that, upstairs, one of their brothers was very happy right now.

* * *

Things between Sealand and England improved from there on in that they didn't fight. Much. Sealand still called his father 'Jerk England', but in a way that was somehow more... endearing. England was okay with it now. His relationship with his son was now no better or worse than that with his adoptive son or half brother, America and France. Difficult relationships within the family were natural to him, and now that it had reached this calmer point, he wasn't bothered by it much anymore.  
In the Irish Hunger Strike of that year, a total of 10 people ended up dying. But the Hunger Strike wasn't the worst thing: later, the Irish National Liberation Army, or INLA, became very active, bombing and attacking the British like the PIRA had. The PIRA received fund for their Long War from Libya, and they used the arms they got to attack the British, amongst which politicians and at one point even the Prime Minister. This continued on for years in the '80s, and however much the family wanted things to stay as they had been near the end of 1981 between them, tensions soon rose again with a vengeance.  
When the attack on the British Prime Minister, Thatcher, happened in 1984, England had been too stressed, angry and frankly in too much pain after the attack, as he had been present and wounded, to listen to his brother's protests about not having anything to do with it. Frustrated that his little brother wouldn't listen, Ireland soon became a tad more violent in his words than he should have been, and as a result, so did England. The dispute ended in a verbal fight which led to a fistfight, landing them both in hospital, though with minor injuries. One of England's ribs, which had been broken in the explosion a day prior and had only just healed, was now broken again and would this time take a while longer to heal. Ireland was there mostly because he'd been hit on the head with quite some force and, as his skull remained a weak spot for years at the least, his brothers had insisted he should get it checked. But he, aside from bruises, came out of the short battle with his brother unscathed.  
A few months later, near the end of February 1985, the IRA killed 18 people in an attack on a police station. In that year there was also an agreement established between the United Kingdom and Ireland, leading to the Irish Republic having more influence in the Northern Irish government. The role they had was described as a 'consultative' one, but it was seen as a step towards peace nevertheless. In reaction to this, Northern Irish paramilitaries increased the number of assassinations on Irish Catholics, however, and because of that, Ireland was tense and rather cranky most of the time. He snapped at his brothers whenever someone brought it up, and they soon learned not to do that anymore. In short, he could be angry with everyone around him for the tiniest things, though they all understood why. It was never easy to think you made the right decision, and have it blow up in your face like that. However, the next big fight in the family wasn't until 1987, fortunately, when the IRA detonated a time bomb during Remembrance Day on 8 November.

"Goddammit, Cearul!" Northern Ireland yelled at his older brother in rage two days later, when the family met to discuss the matter. "You just -that day was to remember victims of a damn World War! You just _don't do that!_ You don't kill people _especially _on a day to commemorate the dead!"  
"As if I don't know!" Ireland had yelled back. "Why the _fuck_ do you guys always blame me for what the IRA does? I told you a billion times, I don't have control over them!" He was yelling at Northern Ireland, but his words were directed at all his younger brothers, standing there in the room with him. Wales quickly tried to soothe him again, saying that they didn't blame him at all, but-  
"This time," Northern Ireland huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "This one time, I _do._" Wales sighed and gave up now that his attempts to stop a fight from commencing was ruined, and just watched the scene unfold with disapproval written all over his face. Ireland protested immediately after North had said this, but the teenager just shrugged. "Oh, for God's sake, Cearul, you know I don't mean that. But I've never been so damn pissed in my life! I need to blame _someone _right now, and you're the easiest target. I'm sorry, but it's true. So let me."  
"That's the most stupid reasoning I've ever heard!" Ireland answered, gritting his teeth and glaring at the boy. "Coineach, you should damn well know that I had nothing to do with all this, and that blaming me is perhaps the most childish, unfair thing you've ever done! You-"  
"Cearul," England warned his brother then, narrowing his eyes at him. "That's enough. As for you, Coineach, Cearul _is right_. Apologize."  
"No, don't!" Ireland then said, shaking his head with hollow laughter. "An apology shouldn't be dragged from someone, Arthur, you know that. He'll apologize in his own time. And if he doesn't," he added softly, with a quick glance toward Northern Ireland. "Then I'll know I have the most unforgiving, worthless piece of shit the world has ever seen for a little brother. Simple as that." This earned him shocked stares from Scotland, Wales and England, and a hard punch in the face a heartbeat later from Northern Ireland, who then stormed out of the room, screaming, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, ALL OF YOU!"

Ireland was just wiping the blood from his lips when Scotland, glaring dangerously at his older brother, asked him with rage seeping from every syllable, "And why the hell would you do that, you git?"  
"Because-" Ireland began, but he trailed off after just one word and shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. But I'm sick and tired of being blamed for all the shit that happens. Do you have any idea what it feels like? I have absolutely nothing to do with them -did the attacks stop while I was in a coma? No! I do not have control over them: they can attack whenever they damn well like and they can stop their useless campaign just as easily, but I _can't make them do either._ But..." he added more softly, regret flashing in his eyes then. "...I did go overboard just now..."  
"Way overboard," Wales agreed, giving Scotland a quick pat on the shoulder to tell him to calm himself, as the Scot was tense all over and look just about to punch Ireland. "But it's too late to take it back now. It'll be sometime before he'll want to talk to you again, Cearul."  
"Or to any of us," England put in, staring at the door which North had slammed closed with so much force, there might as well have been a crack in the solid wood. "But someone has to go talk to him soon. I've never seen him so angry before, and who knows what he'll do..." He looked at all three of his older brothers for a moment, then said flatly, "I vote for Allistair."  
But Scotland shook his head. "Won't work." When England then tried to protest by saying that, out of all of them, Scotland was the genius when it came to children, the tall nation just shrugged and said, "May be. But my 'magic' stops working the moment puberty sets in. Then every method I use seems to make matters only worse."  
"Then I vote Wales. You're the most gentle of us all, Dylan."  
"Now? Forget it. Maybe I'll check later," Wales answered, staring wide-eyed at his little brother, shocked that he would even suggest it. No one really wanted to test Northern Ireland's behaviour when he was this angry.

Eventually things went better again, though Ireland was still receiving glares from each of his brothers the rest of the day. Just after dinner, Wales decided it was time to finally check on North, and the boy let him in without too much trouble. His eyes were glassy and rimmed with a dark pinkish-red, and Wales wasn't surprised at all to find that he'd been crying a little while before. He knew he would've, in North's situation, if only in anger. "I wish that goddamn accident had never happened," Northern Ireland mumbled after spending some time in silence with his older brother beside him. His words surprised Wales for just a moment, until he realised what he was refering to. And he agreed. "I just can't believe how much he's changed since waking up," North went on, fresh tears welling up, but he wiped them away before they had a chance to fall. "He's generally more timid and nicer, I know, but... but sometimes he can also be so _mean_. Downright cruel, even." He sniffled for a moment, then looked up at Wales with big eyes shimmering with sadness. "How can anyone change like that?"  
Wales just sighed and pressed his little brother against himself in a one-armed hug. "Well," he began softly, "he was always like this, really. Before the War of Independence especially. He changed when... well, when fighting his brothers led to him shooting me, crippling me. And then you were born and he had to be something entirely different than an older brother -or at least a different kind of brother than he used to be- and he realised he had to change his methods of self defense."  
"Self defense?" North echoed in disbelief, snorting. "Yeah, right. 'Self defense' my arse."  
"No, really," Wales insisted, remembering very well that one day Ireland had managed to bring even England to tears with his words. "To him, strange as it may sound, using harsh words to hurt others is... is emotional self defense. If he can hurt others before they hurt him, all will be fine. But the thing is, Coineach, he does realize how wrong it is. And he regrets it all the time, like he does now." He sighed then, and added more softly, "It's a shame, though, that he's reverted to that mindset during his months in coma... but it's not unusual for people to change entirely due to such things. I don't know how, but it just... it just happens. So we're lucky that he's not worse than this."  
"I'd hate him if he were any worse," Northern Ireland muttered, but then he shook his head to clear those negative thoughts away. "No, never mind. But I _will_ let him regret this for a while yet before I'll talk to him again!" Wales just smiled and ruffled his hair, saying that he hadn't expected anything else.

* * *

It took a week for North to be willing to talk to Ireland again after that, and a week longer before they had it all settled and calm again. What it eventually took for Ireland to make all of his brothers see that they couldn't, under any circumstances, blame him even though it were 'his' people at fault, was to remind them all that Northern Irish were part of the IRA, INLA and all such organizations just as well.  
And something was being done about the INLA now, too: an organization calling itself the IPLO emerged, fighting the INLA. It was an Irish Republican paramilitary organization, like the INLA itself and the IRA, but while it's actual opponents were the United Kingdom, it also fought the organization it originated from, weakening the INLA. But since they operated in Northern Ireland, even though they weakened the number one problem in the Troubles of that moment, the boy was still left in pain more often than not, and having two Republican organizations feuding like that was very uncomfortable for Ireland, too. Meanwhile it appeared that the IRA wanted to do something about this breakaway organization as well, but they hadn't really acted yet.  
Eventually 1988 came and passed without an end to the Troubles, which, at that point, had lasted 20 years already. And by the start of the '90s, the whole family was sick of it, more so than ever before.

"I swear," Northern Ireland muttered as he had his face planted on the dinnertable. "There's gonna be a day when the Troubles will have lasted the majority of my life."  
"You'll be 70 next year," Scotland said to the young nation, who'd had a growth spurt over the past two years and now had the physique of a 15-year-old, along with the length to match it. The number of centimetres he was shorter than England was now the single digits, much to the older nation's dismay. "And then this will have lasted 23 years. I don't see it happening anytime soon, don't worry."  
"I don't see this ending anytime soon, let's worry."  
England sighed, also at his wits' end. "We could just... try more negotiations?" he suggested, earning a stare from all of his brothers. But he shrugged. "Well, at least I'm coming up with ideas," he stated flatly, looking away then. Wales rolled his eyes, not saying anything, and North just sighed.  
"We've been negotiating since before the Troubles, lad," Ireland muttered, not looking at any of his younger brothers. "Unless you can find the paramilitaries willing to negotiate, it's not going to work. Talk to my gov' all you want, it's not going to get us one step closer to peace." He sighed and slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling in defeat. "They've gotta get tired of fighting someday," he whispered, and his brothers hummed in agreement. And for once England didn't attempt to correct his English, not even with a stare.  
"Well," Scotland sighed, "at least we're not fighting amogst each other anymore."  
"Don't jinx it!" Ireland immediately exclaimed, his gaze shifting to his little brother so fast, the others hardly even saw him move, not counting that they hadn't really been looking at him in the first place. "The last time all was peaceful in the family and someone said that, things went wrong again soon after! The same for the time before, and that time before that!"

"Can we just shoot ourselves and be done with it?" Wales then muttered, not being serious, although his brothers did react to it. England shrugged and said that he'd be fine with it, but they'd have to shoot each other in order to die, and then there would be one left. "So we'll need someone else to kill the last one..." Wales sighed, looking at Scotland then. A tiny smirk played at his lips, though there was no joy in his eyes. "I'm sure that, if you ask him, Gilbert would be happy to, what with him still being pissed about 1947."  
But Scotland shook his head, sadness flashing in his eyes. "Asking Gil won't work..." was all he said before falling silent. After the German reunificstion the decade before, he'd gone for a visit as soon as he could, and when he returned, he had been in a bad mood for two entire weeks. He'd never said what had happened, but since neither Prussia nor East Germany still existed, though the personification of both was still alive, they could guess. Wales just looked away guiltily, knowing that his albino friend was the wrong topic to talk about with his brother, and softly apologized.  
But Ireland grimaced already, anyway. "I've had enough bullets for this century, thank you."  
"To be honest, as have I."  
"Same here."  
"Am I really the only one who's never been shot yet?"  
"It appears so."

And with that, the conversation ended again. And soon after, as did their attempts to find a solution. There were no ideas left. They were doing all they could, their governments were doing all the could, and now it was only a matter of time. A long, long time, and all the patience in the world.

Their patience was rewarded a grand total of 4 years later, 26 years after the Troubles had started, when several of the paramilitary organizations finally came to a ceasefire.

* * *

**Okay, okay, I promise there won't be much fighting anymore between the brothers from here on... Though let's be honest, these were the two only major ones between them in the 13 years (damn, that's long! ony just realized that!) described in this chapter.**

**Aahhh... sorry that the chapter took so long and that it, in my opinion at least, turned out so crappy. But thanks for reading, seriously!**


	40. Chapter 40

**Hiya! I finally finished another chapter!**

**Sorry, I just haven't had much motivation with things going on in my family right now... But this sotry will be finished soon, and Cross Your Heart will follow soon after.**

**Now, to make up for the time this chapter took to write, I can say that it's a more peaceful and more 'fun' one than most. Maybe also because I felt like writing something sweet and funny instead of something angsty.**

**Crossfire, thank you so much for the review! And pinkdoughnuts, thank you for the review, favorites and follows, both here and on Rising! Now that's what I write for: to entertain people. I'm glad you like the story and my ****OCs so much!**

**Now here you go with the new chapter: life during a ceasefire~**

* * *

Northern Ireland hadn't been as happy as he was now in a long time, and his brothers watched him in joy as the teenager went out every day for walks, groceries or work. There had been a time when he'd prefered staying inside above all, so he wouldn't run into any fighting or paramilitary groups, he now prefered not to be home and roam the streets of his capital.  
Now that there was a ceasefire, there was also more hope for successful negotiations, and Ireland was in Belfast for that. He was staying home now as Northern Ireland took his afternoon stroll. He stared out the window then, looking at the boy as he slowly disappeared out of sight. It was incredible how he'd grown up. There he was, reaching Ireland's shoulders already, a mature-looking face and broad shoulders... Ireland smiled, and looked sidewards at a spot on the floor, in the middle of the room. That was where he had first found Northern Ireland 73 years ago. And God, he'd been so tiny then. About as big as his own head was now. "Okay, Coineach," he sighed with a warm smile, getting up from the couch. "All right, you win. You're not a child anymore, lad..." He looked around for a moment, wondering what to do. He had no work to do now and nowhere to go like North apparently did. There were maybe two books in the entire house that he hadn't read yet, and quite honestly, he wasn't really looking for a book. He wasn't exactly a fan of technology, and used the computer he had solely for work, unlike North and Scotland. Really, he'd be bored all afternoon on his own. "I could cook..." he sighed to himself. "Coineach would probably appreciate an elaborate meal for once... I hope." And so he went into the kitchen, checked what they had in the fridge and cupboards, decided what he could make with that and what he would need to get. The economy was looking up again, so there was plenty of money to really take advantage of for one dinner. Perhaps that was one of the reasons North had this bright mood, too, Ireland thought, grabbing his coat and going out. He himself felt better now that he had no reason to fear waking up incapable of even getting up due to a terrible economy, like last decade. Halfway through the '80s, he'd had a day like that, awakening with the most horrible flu he could remember. All of them had at least had one day like that. Now everyone was healthy and, because of that, happy.

The entire atmosphere in Belfast felt different to him. Brighter, more comfortable. The air smelt fresh with early autumn, and leaves were covering rooftops already. The streets were still clean, however. _The world can be so beautiful,_ he thought happily. _If it is peaceful._ He hoped it would last. He didn't think it would, but he hoped. But he wouldn't worry right now: that would ruin his day, while the rare happy days like these were so precious to him. He would enjoy it to its fullest. And so he also decided to take a little detour through the park to get the to supermarket. It was comfortably warm for this time of the year, and many people were there, after all. All seemed peaceful and quiet enough despite it being crowded, and he simply longed to walk through something like that for a change. The world really hadn't looked so beautiful in ages. _Please let the peace last forever_, he begged silently, closing his eyes for a moment.

After he'd been in the park for ten minutes already, and was nearly out of it again, he spotted Northern Ireland not too far from him, walking there with a friend of his, Ireland figured. Finally the boy had become closer to his people again, after avoiding them for years after what had happened when he'd been abducted. He hadn't trusted humans for quite some time back then -he'd been completely himself near his brothers, but with humans close to him, he'd shown clear signs of trauma. But all that was healed now, the worst of it forgotten, all of it nothing but a painful memory. Ireland smiled when he saw the young nation with this human girl, and he wondered for a moment whether he pretended to be human or if he was honest about what he was. He himself had tried the former once, but that didn't work with longterm friendships, and he'd soon learned not to do it if he was serious about creating a bond with someone. He hoped North would see that in time, too. He watched in silence as the two talked while walking, still smiling. But his smile faded when Northern Ireland leaned closer to the girl as they walked, and... kissed her.  
_Goddamn, lad,_ was all his mind could come up with when he saw this. _Not on the very day I admit you're not a child anymore, please._ Then he quickly turned around and walked away, glad that North hadn't seen him yet and hoping he wouldn't see him now, either. The boy would be furious if he thought Ireland had been spying on him, and he would rather not have a fight with him in public. A fight was inevitable, though, when he would have to tell the teenager that things like these just weren't... just couldn't... just..._ damn_. He sighed. _He's not going to like me for some time... again._ But the boy had to learn the lesson they all had to learn someday: that humans and nations didn't mix. Not like that. _But with his age,_ Ireland told himself as he took a deep breath,_ it's only natural._ He himself had done more outrageous things at that physical age than just holding hands and kissing every now and then. Much more outrageous, even. Things he would never recite yet would never forget. _And who can guarantee that North hasn't_-? A voice began in the back of his mind, and he silenced it before it could finish that thought. No way. No. Way. Northern Ireland was still young and innocent and he _hadn't done anything like that._  
_Yeah, sure he is._  
_Damn right, he is!_  
And then he just laughed. It felt so good to be worried over something trivial for once. To worry about his son (as, right now, he couldn't bring himself to think 'his little brother' no matter how hard he tried) having his first girlfriend, instead of worrying about a neverending war, a bad economy, difficult relationships and constant tension within the family. And he decided that he wouldn't say anything to North. For now at least this relationship could hardly go wrong, and he wanted to allow the boy to be happy for once, which he now was. And at least now he also knew why the young nation went out every day, something he'd been wondering about for some time._ But Allistair will hear about this,_ he decided quickly. _And Dylan. And little Peter. And Francis for all I care, and damn, the entire world could know so long as Artie is left in the dark. _Because England would deal with this the wrong way, one way or the other. He didn't want Northern Ireland to be reprimanded for simply being happy for a change, but he also definitely didn't want the boy to get any 'useful hints' from his older brother, not if he could help it. and God only knows what England had learned in his punk phase. _More outrageous than my Middle Ages for sure._ Then he shook his head and shook all those thoughts away quickly. He was shopping for groceries, not wondering and worrying about North's private life, for Heaven's sake!

* * *

'So_ how have you been lately?'_ Scotland typed, waiting for his friend's response. Computers, and especially internet, were the best inventions ever, he had decided the moment he found out he could directly chat with others without having to fly to another country or spend money on phone bills. The ex-personification off Prussia and East Germany was currently on a chat with him, and he was hoping to get information out of the ex-nation. He was worried a lot about him lately, and with good reason, he figured, from what he heard from France and Germany.  
_'Well, you know... the usual_,_' _was Gilbert's response, and Scotland sighed when he read this. 'The usual' could be translated to 'quite depressed, not sure what to do with my life right now, I want to die, kill me'. Not necessarily in that order. _'It's getting hard to hide the whole loss of immortality thing from Luddy these days. But, well, it's been years since I stopped being a nation... the aging is getting obvious now.'_  
_'Well, that's one thing you cannot prevent,_' Scotland answered with another sigh. _'So how old would you estimate yourself now?'_  
_'About your brother's age,_' was the quick response.  
_'Dylan's? That's only a 4-year difference with before, give or take.'_  
_'Well, it's been 4 years, hasn't it?'_  
Right. It had been 4 years. That meant Gilbert was probably aging at a normal pace now -a human pace. _'How can 4 years be obvious?'_  
_'Have you ever seen the difference between a 20-year-old and a 24-year-old? It's there, Al. Not too obvious, I admit, but it's there.'_  
_'I shouldn't worry if I were you... He'll find out one day, anyway, and I think it's best if you just tell him now than make him wait for answers._'  
'_Right... I'll think about it. Gotta go now. Bye.'_ He went offline pretty much immediately after that. Scotland stood staring at the words on the screen for a little while longer, then shook his head and turned off the computer, walking away from it again. He enjoyed talking to Gilbert most of the time, but there were days when it only got him down. He had no idea what he would do if he suddenly lost his identity as Scotland, especially if he stopped being a nation altogether. But for the past 4 years, it had gotten his albino friend confused and depressed France had informed him that it didn't even work to take the man to a bar and get him drunk -he would only act 'England-y', as France described it, and get sentimental and miserable. Not even the news of the fall of the Soviet Union which he so loathed after his time under their control could cheer him up some years ago. The trio of friends, together with Spain, who formed another trio with France and Gilbert but didn't get along well with Scotland, had been trying to figure out ever since the official reunification of Germany 4 years ago whether or not it had reduced Gilbert to being a human, and so far, it looked like it. While Scotland could probably have handled that particular aspect, celebrated it perhaps, Gilbert got distressed at the mere mention of it.

"You'll be fine, laddie," the Scot told his friend softly, hoping he could somehow hear him. "You'll be fine, really, and so will Ludwig..." Then the phone rang, and he went to get it in a heartbeat, hoping to have some distraction from this call, whatever it would be about. He got exactly that, and it came in the form of a distressed-sounding Ireland. At first Scotland got worried, but when he heard his older brother's words along with his voice, he just laughed. "He did what now?" he asked as he tried to stop his laughter just enough to speak. "You saw the lil' lad with a girl and what-? Cearul, that's nothing to be so-! Good lord, Old Man, have you nothing better to worry about?"  
"Apart from potatoes that are boiling over-!" Ireland said hurriedly, and Scotland could hear the clang of pots in the background before the older nation spoke again. "-no, thankfully not."  
Scotland couldn't stop smirking just then, the worries about his German friend forgotten for a moment. "Ah, Cearul, you just cannot stand the fact that your lil' lad is growing up, can you?"  
"I could hardly stand it when all three of you grew up!" the Irish nation exclaimed in response then. "I can't have a fourth little brother -or, you know- growing up like this! And damn, we need to have that certain conversation with him sometime soon..." Scotland grimaced at the thought of what North's reaction would be to that, but he just nodded and agreed that they should indeed. "I don't want to, Al..." Ireland whined. "I really don't want to..."  
The the Scot sighed once again and chuckled a bit. "Old Man, you weren't like this with me, Dylan or Artie the first time, either, and it all turned out just fine-"  
"Because I didn't know about your first girlfriends, that's why!" Ireland yelled, sounding utterly stressed and worried. "But trust me when I say I was plotting to kill France when I heard about your marriage to him!"  
"As was I," Scotland answered, laughing still, shaking his head. But then a shiver went down his spine, and he added more softly, "But damn, Cearul, I get now why Coineach would rather have you as his brother -this fatherly side of you is creepin' me out. It's usually the dad that wants to kill their kid's groom or bride, remember, _brother_?"  
"In the absence of a parent, Al," Ireland explained calmly, his stress earlier apparently forgotten in a heartbeat now. "I took that role upon me. You should be flattered, it means I care." Scotland just hummed and answered that he was, depsite the 'creepiness' of it.  
"Now don't you worry about that lad, alright?" he reassured his older brother. "We'll talk to him together before things get out of hand. He'll understand."

* * *

Wales and England spent the afternoon and evening together that day. They, too, were enjoying the relative peace of that period to the fullest, and had now decided to tak a day off together and do some things they hadn't done in a long time: going for a long walk together, visit a historical museum to just be nostalgic for once, and then, just after dinner, they went to something completely new to both a them: a movie theater. They had watched films at home, of course, and were still astounded by how much technology had advanced in such short time, but neither of them had ever watched anything on the huge screens of a theater. They wouldn't be the first in the family, Northern Ireland had beaten them to it. But they had decided on a fairly new one, _Interview with the Vampire,_ and with that at least they would be the first. It was the adaption of a book they had both read and both enjoyed, and this film had gotten good reviews so far.  
"I wonder what it'll be like," Wales mumbled eventually, and England, who was a bit more used to modern technology than his older brother, only grinned at hearing his slightly nervous tone.  
"I'm pretty sure it'll be great," he answered, pulling Wales along to their seats. "Just try not to talk this time: you can do so at home, but humans won't appreciate it. I don't want to be kicked out." Wales rolled his eyes in response and didn't answer.

They were shocked once again. Wales especially remained wide-eyed for the rest of the night on the way back home. "That colour in it!" he exclaimed. "It's like that character, Louis, said near the end..." He kept babbling on for some time, and England, though he agreed to everything his brother said, remained amused. But what he'd been watching that evening bothered him somehow. The world was evolving faster than they were... "Dylan," he mumbled eventually, and Wales finally fell silent and listened to him. "We really need to do our best," the younger nation went on. "We need to keep up with the world. Alright? Before 2000, we'll be up-to-date."  
Wales chuckled and nodded. "Alright," he agreed softly. "We will. I'm sure Coineach can help us." Then he laughed a little more loudly, and added, "Cearul needs help especially! Allistair will be fine, I suppose." He looked around then, watching their surroundings, and sighed. The nights weren't dark anymore, nor were they silent. The world was becoming a busy place day and night. The world they had grown up in was gone. But he didn't really miss it, and neither did England, he knew. None of them did -change wasn't always a bad thing. And right now, the most recent change that had occured was the best in years. "You know what?" Wales then said to his younger brother, looking at him sidewards. "We will _all_ be fine. I'm not talking about technology now, but just life in general. Look at how far we've come: we survived century after century of hardships. We went through wars and came out stronger. Less than 80 years ago, we had a blind brother, a depressed one, two that nearly died, and we all survived. This century we've survived the two most horrible wars the world has seen. Half a century ago, I was still paralyzed and in a wheelchair, and now I can do anything again. We nearly lost Cearul not long ago, and just look who's bossing us around again sometimes, completely our big brother again despite what happened. We all made mistakes, we fought, we were miserable, but somehow... life went on. And it always will."  
"I thought we wanted to be nostalgic," England commented, smiling, "and not sentimental." Then he turned and looked at Wales, too, smiling wider. "You're right, brother," he said. "We are, and will always be... just fine."  
"This ceasefire won't last," Wales sighed then, surprising England a bit. He hadn't expected that topic to pop up that day. "But you know what? There will be another, and maybe another, and yet another... until one day it becomes permanent, and there will be peace again."  
England hummed and remained silent for a while as they walked back then. It was no secret that everyone felt better now with the ceasefire. They hadn't expected it would have much effect other than giving them some mental rest for once, but the entire family practically felt ten years younger by body as well. The Troubles had lasted so long now, they didn't even know how it affected them all those years anymore. He didn't want this ceasefire to ever end, but he knew as well as Wales did, and as well as everyone, nation and human, on these islands did that it wouldn't last. "Let's hold on to that thought, Dylan," he said eventually, on his doorstep with his brother beside them, unlocking the door. "One day, for sure, it will come true." And then they went inside. They wouldn't end the night without some alcohol for sure, and sleep was probably ages away yet. But this night would be different than they had been for years in one major respect: this night, they wouldn't have to worry about waking in pain, or because of a phonecall saying on of their siblings was hurt, a message from the government bringing them news of death and destruction.  
This night, there would be peace, and the only worries they had was that they'd be once again unable to hit the breaks on the alcohol, and would get a hangover the next morning.

* * *

A few hours before that, in Belfast, Ireland sat with his feet on the coffee table with a book in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. It was 8 in the evening, and Northern Ireland wasn't home yet. This was his method of staying calm. He knew the boy wouldn't be in trouble, but after what he'd seen that afternoon, but he also knew that if he didn't see the boy return before the morning, 'that conversation' would have come too late. But just minutes later, the frontdoor opened and Northern Ireland announced his return. Ireland sighed, but kept a straight face. There was no guarantee, but at least this gave him hope that nothing bad had happened -yet. Instead of mentioning it, he just looked up with a smile and greeted his little brother as he came in. North stared at the older nation for a moment, then at the position of the man's feet, back to Ireland again and then sighed. "Cearul, feet off the table please."  
Ireland just shrugged. "Why? It's not like you never did it, and they're clean! I don't see any harm in being comfortable, lad."  
"But it's _my _table," the teenager muttered, scowling.  
"You do the same with mine all the time."  
"But you make more money than I do right now," Northern Ireland argued. "So it's less of a problem for you if anything gets damaged, what with your blossoming economy and all that."  
"Ah, yes, I'm doing great now, aren't I?" Ireland said with a wide smile, not taking his eyes off his book as he started to chuckle. "You are, too, of course... just not as good as me." Then he took a swig of his beer, and heard Northern Ireland huff.  
"How many of those have you had, Cearul?" the young nation demanded, and Ireland shrugged, saying he wasn't sure, and North immediately went over to him and snatched the half-empty bottle from his grasp. "Okay, that's enough alcohol for you tonight." He quickly brought it back to the kitchen, feeling again that urge to just taste it for once. He'd never had alcohol before, and he was too young by body to have it. He wouldn't break the laws about that, but still, he wanted to taste it someday, go along with his brothers to the pubs they went to. But right now, he wouldn't. There had to be one person who could still think rationally that evening. And so he emptied it in the sink, seeing 3 other empty bottles there already. Ireland could hold his liquor very well, but he would definitely be at least a little intoxicated after this much.

Then he also noticed the pot that was kept warm on a small fire on the stove, and his empty stomach cramped at the smell that came from it. He'd planned to get something to eat, but hadn't in the end, and he was hungry now. So he called quickly to Ireland, asking if that was left for him, even though he was certain of it. "Sure it is, lad! You don't mind that I had dinner already without you, right?" Ireland answered from the livingroom. "You took so long to get home..." North didn't listen anymore and quickly put the food on a plate before returning to the livingroom and sitting down beside Ireland -who now had his feet on the ground. North grinned at that for a moment, but didn't mention it. From there on, Northern Ireland silently enjoyed dinner, only speaking to thank his brother for cooking briefly, and Ireland continued reading. Until, after a few minutes, Ireland asked softly, "So who was the girl?"  
North nearly choked, but swallowed quickly and stammered, "You followed me?" Then he coughed once, dislodging a piece of meat that had nearly gone down the wrong end of his throat. "Ah... she's a friend of mine. We met some time ago, and hang out together sometimes." Well, it wasn't a lie...  
"Hanging out involves kissing these days?"  
Now North tensed, and he didn't say anything for a moment. He knew Ireland wouldn't have mentioned this if he were sober, even if he had followed him ever step of the way -_he didn't! Right?-_ and he had no idea whether to be angry with him, or the alcohol. "Well," he muttered angrily. "We're friends... with some extras..."  
Ireland hummed, and looked at North for a moment, the boy answering his stare with a distressed one of his own. "Oh, alright," Ireland answered calmly, as if the two were talking about the weather. Then he looked away again, and just when North thought he would let it go now, the older nation said simply, "I hope the 'extras' don't involve taking off your clothes and-"  
"_Dad!_" the teenage nation interrupted him quickly before Ireland's alcohol-dazed mind would cause him to speak further. North could feel his face grow hot, and he guessed he was as red as a tomato by then. "For the record, I'm a 73-year-old _virgin,_ you have nothing to worry about there!" Oh, hell no. He wasn't lying now, either, but he wasn't about to tell how close he'd come to making saying this the biggest lie in the world. And also, what right had Ireland to lecture him? He could only imagine the years, decades, _centuries _of experience the older nation had in that field, be it a regular habit or a rare one. In 25 centuries, there were plenty of things he could've done that North couldn't even dream of. But just when he was about to tell him that, Ireland spoke again.  
"Oh, okay... I'll trust you on that one, Coineach." Then he sighed and numbly flipped a page of his book without even reading it anymore. "I'm not judging you, lad. God knows I haven't the right, after..." _Exactly._ "...well, let's not get into details. But what I'm saying is, with your age, it's natural. I think I was younger myself... physically, I mean. I must've been nearly 1000 then. Still, I think it's best if I warn you-"  
"Wait a moment," Northern Ireland then interrupted the older nation, staring at him and narrowing his eyes at a sudden -and laughable- realisation. His irritation ebbed away and got replaced by amusement. "You're trying to have the Talk with me, aren't you?"  
Ireland stared back at him for a moment, confused. Then he shrugged. "Is that what kids call it nowadays? Well, no. Not yet." The older nation shifted and looked away, fidgeting a little. "I know i-it wouldn't exactly go down well with you now..." Then Northern Ireland burst out laughing, startling his older brother. But he couldn't control himself right now. Shy, religious, prudish Ireland was trying to give him the Talk! Well, 'shy' only when it came to matters like these, but that only made it even funnier. And the only reason he wouldn't do so now was that _he_ wasn't ready for it yet, instead of North! He cracked open one eye as he laughed, his vision blurred with the tears in his eyes, and saw a flustered Ireland stare at him wide-eyed. Just seeing the look in his eyes made it even worse, and he rolled off the couch, practically screaming with laughter on the floor. "I-I'm serious, Coineach!" Ireland stammered, but the boy could hardly hear him. "T-the government wouldn't be pleased if you- Coineach, especially since you're so young- A-and think about the church's opinion, too-!" But no matter what he said, it didn't ease the teen's bout of laughter, if not made it even worse. Only after minutes that seemed like an eternity to both of them, did Northern Ireland manage to silence himself, and he scrambled to his feet, having to hold on to the coffee table and the couch for support, his legs still shaky with laughter.  
"Oh, Cearul," he choked out, wiping away the tears of joy from his eyes. "You're amazing sometimes... Now how about you go to bed and sleep off the shock and alcohol, and I finish my dinner and watch some telly?" To his amazement, Ireland, still flustered and shocked about the boy's reaction, just nodded and went upstairs, softly wishing him goodnight.

North just sat back on the couch, turned on the television and watched the first show he saw. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun with his brother. And, he realised, he also didn't remember the last time he'd seen Ireland this worried about a matter this trivial. And it was amazing. _Let the peace last_, he begged, smiling. _Our life is finally normal again._

* * *

But as everyone could predict, the peace didn't last very long, but they could all feel that the next ceasefire was just around the corner, and the violence couldn't get them as down as they once were. Ireland's economy was doing great, and the rest of the family wasn't so bad, either. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

And on the matter of worries -those of Ireland were justified soon enough as well. Northern Ireland hadn't lied to him that one evening. But he also couldn't keep it up like that for another year. And that's when he found his four brothers on his doorstep. "Okay, laddie," Scotland said with a grin, his eyes shining with joy. "_Now_ we've got to talk."

Northern Ireland was annoyed when he let them in, but he sighed and decided not to worry. This, like everything else, would be over soon enough. And then their lives would be normal again, and finally they would remain that way.

* * *

**...And that's what directly led up to the events in the side-story, _The Talk_.**

**I hope you liked it! Full-blown-teenager Northern Ireland can be annoying... but so can 'parental' figures! (Or brotherly, whatever you like best)  
Oh, I'm so not looking forward to _my_ first relationship and the Talk I'll get from my parents... I shudder at the mere thought of it. My little sister has beaten me to it, and she has one on a weekly basis.  
**

**And just imagine ancient people like these experiencing all the technological developments of the past decades! Even _I'm_ going crazy sometimes with not understanding it all, let alone my parents, _let alone... _well, you know.**

**Well, that's it for now! This is my last weekend before school starts (and I hate my damn classes since I've been seperated from the few friends I have in nearly every class -_-) and I'm going to be ambitious this year about getting first place in the English exams... so I'll be working on that a lot. (Though, I guess writing like this can be considered practicing my English, sooo...)**

**Thanks for reading and until next time!**


	41. Chapter 41

**It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, a lot happened in my life, and I wasn't feeling up to writing for a long time. Or at least, I had no motivation left.**

**But I'm back now, with the second-last chapter of Trouble. Yup... only one more after this. I can hardly believe it myself. I've just checked, and I wrote the first chapter for Rising on 25 August 2014, a year and two days ago. I've never spent so much time on a single project, and I don't regret a second of it.**

**But while this story is soon coming to an end, I have written up to chapter 3 of Cross Your Heart, and will be writing more one shots for these guys. Like exploring England's pirate age, a modern-day thingy about a heatwave (guess what inspired it...) and, as pinkdoughnuts requested, a one shot in which Ireland finally gets a girl. It was about time indeed.**

**Pinkdoughnuts and Crossfire, thank you once again for the reviews! They brightened my days.**

* * *

England stumbled to his telephone, clutching his chest in pain. It was the early evening of 9 February 1996, and right now, he knew with all his aching, burning heart that the ceasefire had been ended with a bombing in London. They had been warned by the IRA that this bombing would happen an hour and a half ago, but he'd hoped it was just false alarm, maybe some sick joke from somebody. But there had been a bomb, and right now he wanted to talk to Ireland about it. It took him all his self-restraint to calm himself before even dialing the other nation's phonenumber, because he knew what would happen if he started yelling. And to fight with his brother now, while he was still in pain and after how hard they had worked to start getting along better the past years, was about the last thing he wanted. Though if he were honest with himself, he really did feel like yelling at someone at the very least. Maybe he should really consider purchasing a punching bag, then...  
"Ireland speaking," his brother then greeted on the other side of the line. He wanted to say more, but England wouldn't let him, not wasting any time before telling it was him. His voice croaked with pain, which the older nation immediately noticed. "Artie?" he asked quickly. "D-did something... Wait... S-surely it's not-?"  
"The IRA," England choked out, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, trying to block out the pain. But he also noticed it was beginning to fade, which was a good sign. _Give me a minute,_ he thought, _maybe a few. I'll feel perfect again then._ But for now the pain was still evident in his voice as he spoke. "I-it was the IRA... in Canary Wharf."  
"London?"  
"Yeah..." He choked out a laugh, though the attempt at sounding a little cheerful sounded as feeble as it was. "Honestly, it's not... not that bad. I'm not bleeding, so if any, there haven't been many deaths... But it hurts like bloody hell."  
"Obviously," Ireland answered, sighing as well. He sounded extremely disappointed, and a bit guilty as well, knowing that _his_ people were the first to start fighting again, or at least the people on 'his side'. "Damn. I'm so sorry, lad, I -I wish it would've lasted longer. And if it had to start again, I would've prefered to be the first of us to end up hurt again..."  
"No, you wouldn't," England answered, managing a soft chuckle, a genuine one.  
At this, Ireland laughed softly too, and he confessed, "Well, okay, the _caring, brotherly_ side of me does. The rational side is thanking God right now that I was spared the pain this time."  
"You have a rational side?"  
"...Apparently."  
It was silent for a little while then, and during that time, England guessed Ireland was thinking the same as him: _at least we can joke about it. __**Us two, **__of all people. Good sign._ Then when the Englishman spoke again, he was glad that the pain in his chest had ebbed away to the point that he could at least keep his voice steady again. "Well, I just thought you'd ought to know... I have to go again now. Government and all that. They'll need me now." Ireland merely hummed in reply, then softly wished him good luck with it, and again apologized. This wasn't what either of them had hoped would happen.

* * *

The next major bombing that year was again in England, in Manchester. No one was killed, but once again there were many injuries and too much destruction. This time, England and Ireland couldn't joke about it. And neither could they a few months later, when there was a bombing in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. There was only one death, but plenty of injuries as well. But there weren't many major things, aside from an attack in early 1997, before a new ceasefire came to be. Just before that, however, there were riots within nationalist districts of Northern Ireland.

North grunted in pain, curling up where he sat. It was 9 July 1997, the 4th day of the riots. No one had died so far, but there was so much fighting that he was still in a lot of pain most of the time. He was just glad that he wasn't in Belfast now, and couldn't get caught up in any of it more than this. "Are you okay?" Ireland asked as he looked up from his work. Northern Ireland had come to visit him only a day before all this had started, so they hadn't really had time to do anything together but gather as much information as they could. But neither seemed really bothered by it. They just hoped everything would be peaceful again soon, and they weren't about to give up on that hope. Northern Ireland just shrugged, answering that he was doing relatively fine, though he had a bad stomach ache just then. "And you?" he asked the older nation. "How are you doing with all this?"  
"A bit uneasy," Ireland sighed, wondering why North would even ask him that. It seemed clear enough to him that he wouldn't be in pain from this and why. "But that's all, really. I'm perfectly fine." He smiled when he saw the teen's next question burning in his pale emerald eyes, and added, "And I'm sure Arthur is doing just as well, don't worry." British soldiers were involved in this, too, so England felt most of what was going on as well, though without any pain, like Ireland. And the same went for Wales and Scotland as well. Ireland then stared at North a moment longer, seeing how tense the boy's shoulders were despite his claims of being fine, and he sighed. "Do you need help, lad?" he asked carefully, hoping not to offend the teen. At his current age, Northern Ireland wasn't always fond of the idea that his brothers wanted to help him with _anything._ But North just shrugged and said that he was fine. "Really?" Ireland insisted. "Not even a painkiller?"  
"It's bearable," Northern Ireland told him with a tiny, reassuring smile. "I'll manage, don't worry." Then his smile grew a little wider, and he looked away again, adding softly, "I have a feeling this won't last much longer, anyway."  
Ireland blinked in surprise. "Is that what you hope, or-?" But the teenage nation shook his head and answered that he could feel it, and Ireland was impressed. It wasn't that uncommon for a nation to feel how long something would last, though they were rarely ever confident about it, since they were usually wrong by a few days at the least, but he couldn't remember North ever sensing such things. "That would be amazing," the older nation just said with a warm smile. "I can only imagine this to feel similar to the Easter Rising, so I really hope you're right, and it'll end soon."  
At the mention of the Easter Rising, Northern Ireland looked up curiously. He didn't think about it often, but whenever he did, he always wondered what it had been like to his older brother. Ireland had told him all the facts, rather detailed at that, but he never spoke about his personal experiences of that week. This was his chance to find out. "What _did_ it feel like?" he asked bluntly. "Aside from the pain, I mean, I can imagine that much myself. But... what was it like to you?"  
Sadness flashed in Ireland's pale eyes at this, and for a moment, the boy regretted asking about it. But he really wanted to know, and though he disliked remembering the details, Ireland didn't seem reluctant to talk about it now. "It was tough," he answered with a sigh. "Really tough. I wanted to do what was best for _everyone_, but ended up doing what was best for _me._ I couldn't betray my own people, and I couldn't betray my brothers. But no matter what I would have chosen to do that week, I would have done one of the two at least. I ended up doing both." North frowned at this, a little confused. He knew Ireland had betrayed the family, at the worst possible time at that, but his people? He had helped freeing them. What was the betrayal in that? But Ireland shook his head when North mentioned this. "No, Coineach, I... I didn't fight. I supported the rebels, but I did practically nothing to help them. And then there were the loyalists, mostly living in Ulster, but also throughout the rest of the island. I betrayed them by siding with the rebels." Northern Ireland listened in silence now, recognition burning inside him, the flame growing stronger with each word. All this sounded way too familiar. "My decisions then were as good as they were wrong, lad. My people are free, yes, but what about those who wanted to stay? The Rising led to a war, which then led to your birth. Your birth led to a civil war, and even now, that civil war rages on. And sometimes I wonder if it would've been better to put a stop to the Easter Rising before it even began... I would've died not too long from now if I had, and you wouldn't have been born, but..." He looked straight at Northern Ireland now, his gaze so intense, the boy could see nothing but his brother for a moment. The world around them had faded for just a few seconds. "If you hadn't even been born, Coineach, you wouldn't have had to live a life this difficult, this troubled... Wouldn't that have been better for you, I wonder sometimes...?"  
For a moment, Northern Ireland couldn't answer, but then he quickly shook his head. "I wouldn't have minded if I had never existed," he answered honestly. "Let's face it, I wouldn't even have known, because I'd have never been there. But I'm alive, Cearul, and every life is worth living. Even the ones like this. I still believe that everything will be all right again someday." He smiled again then, and added happily, "And that day might come sooner than we think! You cannot _not_ feel the positivity that's soon to come, Cearul. It's there, waiting for us."  
Ireland smiled as well at that, and nodded. Just like he could sense economical trouble months before it came, did he now feel that soon enough, things would be looking up once again. _Within a year,_ he had been telling himself for some days now, _within a year we'll have made great progress in the peace-making process._ And he was overjoyed to hear now that Northern Ireland felt the same thing: now they could be certain of it. "Life will be better," he said with a warm smile, and North added, "Soon."

* * *

Northern Ireland's estimations hadn't been so wrong in the end. The riots lasted only days longer, and soon after, the family's hopes became reality once more: the IRA reinstated their ceasefire. Though other paramilitary organisations were still fighting, one of the two major ones was now inactive again. and then negotiations began once more. All five nations involved attended meetings to the point that they could nearly collapse, sometimes working day and night to finish their work. But they knew what it would lead to eventually, and nobosy complained about the amount of work.  
At an EU meeting near the end of the year, they were all exhausted but positive about the future. Not all other European nations were so happy about it those days, though...

"Northern Ireland!" Austria said, annoyed, in the middle of his speech. The young nation didn't even react with so much as a twitch. "Northern Ireland!" the Austrian repeated, "vake up, for Gott's sake!" Still no reaction, and the older European nation was clearly getting angry now. "_Northern Ireland, if you insist on sleeping during zhe meetings, at least do so __**quietly**__!_"  
Then the young Irish nation shot up, startled. "Vote yes, it's the way ahead," he mumbled quickly, and received confused stares from all the nations for that.  
"Zhere is nothing to vote for," Austria told him calmly, but the boy only seemed startled by this.  
"No, no!" he said, panicking. "I don't care about the terms, just _agree!_ There _must _be a vote!"  
"Laddie," Scotland said beside him, sounding just as tired, though he had managed to stay awake, other than Wales, who was sitting on the Scot's other side and was dozing off as well, though less obviously than North had. "Lad, calm down. This is the EU, not the gov'." Then he yawned and blinked drowsily, his gaze unfocused. Northern Ireland just glanced around the conference hall, went red as a tomato when he realised where he was, and quickly apologised, embarassed. Then the others noticed that Wales was asleep as well, and no one even tried to wake him, having found out the hard way that he could have quite the temper when woken up like that. Austria sighed and turned to England. "I vas just about finished here, anyway, so I suppose you may explain to us vhat is going on vith your brothers now, England."  
As the Austrian walked back to his seat, England got up, but could not suppress a yawn as he did. The others, already guessing where this was going, didn't even react when he stumbled a few steps, stopped and sighed. "Peace negotiations," he said softly, his voice slurred with exhaustion, and then he turned back and slumped down in his chair once more. The other nations then turned to Ireland, and upon seeing their questioning gazes, he grunted. "Spare an old man..." he begged softly, planting his forehead on his desk.  
"All right, all right!" Denmark laughed then, getting up. "No worries, gramps, I'm next." Ireland sighed in relief, and as did Scotland and England. North had fallen asleep again. But Denmark's voice was louder than was good for him, or for anyone else present on that matter, for it woke Wales after barely more than a minute.

"SHUT _UP!_" the Welshman screamed suddenly, startling several nations and bringing North Italy to yelp in fear. The tired nation looked totally enraged, and the nations guessed he was loud enough to alarm the humans in the conference room beside them. "Listen up, you little shit, I haven't slept properly in _four fucking days,_ and I'm _trying _to catch up on that!" Northern Ireland woke again as well, mumbling something about the negotiations again before flinching at his brother's loud and angry voice. But Wales raged on, taking no notice of that. "So you, _all of you_, just shut the hell up and let me close my eyes for _just one minute,_ for Heaven's sake!" France tried to say something to calm him down, but the Welshman just turned to him, glaring bloody murder. "_Fuck you!"_  
"We're well past that point now, _cher,_" France answered calmly. He wanted to say more, but Scotland beat him to it.  
"Laddie, sit down," he ordered his little brother. "_Now._" Wales huffed but sat down again, glaring at every nation aside from his family. Scotland placed his hand gently on the younger nation's shoulder, telling him softly, "Just go back to sleep, Dylan. Leave them be, they're only trying to have a meeting."  
"That little piece of shit should the the fuck up," Wales muttered angrily, glaring at Denmark, who was staring back nervously. Scotland just sighed and told him to calm down once more, adding that the Scandinavian would be more careful now. Denmark quickly nodded, too afraid of Wales when he was like this to not do so. And finally the nation settled down again, closing his eyes, and sleeping again seconds later. England then apologised for his brother's behaviour, and Germany sighed. "Just go to sleep, all of you," he told them after some silence. The exhausted nations didn't even hesitate to take up the offer, but Germany quickly added, "Except Scotland: you snore too loudly."  
"Oh, come _on,_ laddie!"  
"...Fine."

* * *

From there on, the negotiations still took months before they came to an agreement. And before that happened, the family decided to have a little meeting of their own. They would do the one thing they had sworn to never do: all the secrets they had kept from their family would be revealed. They had decided this after the Irish government had let something slip about how their nation had ended up in a coma so many years ago during negotiations, and both Ireland and Northern Ireland were thoroughly confused by it and starting to ask questions. The humans had been wise enough not to say anything, but Great Britain had that day decided it was best to just tell them the truth before they would figure it out on their own.  
Scotland was the one to tell them the fine details of it, as he'd been the only one there to witness it, and he loathed having to do it. "Coineach, when Cearul and I came to save you," he began softly, "they were electrocuting you, as you might remember... You were in so much pain, little brother, so afraid, you could only think of getting away from there. So when Cearul and I were fighting, you saw a chance to free yourself and ran off into their storage room. Cearul was the first to get away from the fighting, and he ran after you. A few seconds later, I had beaten my opponent, too, and followed. When I got there, you just sat there against the wall, staring at me in pure fear. You didn't recognise me at all until I held you and... and took the gun from your hands." Northern Ireland's eyes widened at this, and pure horror shone in them, etched on every inch of his face as he listened. Ireland realised what his little brother was saying now, too, and he stared wide-eyed at North. "You had grabbed it to protect yourself with, laddie," Scotland continued, looking the young nation intently in the eyes. "When Cearul came barging in like that, holding a weapon and enraged as he was, I can only imagined you saw him as a threat sooner than as your brother. By the time I came in, he had already been shot..."  
Northern Ireland then turned to stare at Ireland instead, tears welling up in his eyes. "I didn't..." he choked out hoarsely. "I... I didn't... Cearul..." He gritted his teeth, trying hard to keep his emotions under control, but then he swung his arms around his brother's neck a heartbeat later. "I'm so sorry!" he cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks. _He_ had shot Ireland? _He_ had been responsible for his brother's coma, his near-death, his memory loss afterward? He had done all that out of something as stupid as _fear?_ He clung to Ireland now, wondering what it would have been like if his big brother wasn't here anymore now, and that would've been _his_ fault. At the mere thought of it, he couldn't suppress a sob anymore, and he held his brother tighter, still apologising. But Ireland didn't move an inch. _Please,_ North begged him silently. _Please, don't be angry! Please... hug me back._

It took Ireland a minute of having the boy cry against his shoulder before he slowly put his arms around him, though he still didn't say anything to him. Instead, he shook his head slowly and choked out, "I knew it had been one of you... else I wouldn't have been in danger like that... but I had thought it was an accident."  
"It _was_ an accident!" Scotland protested, not quite believing how his brother could not see that. "As I said, Coineach was too scared to even recognise us! He'd have shot me, too, had the gun not been empty! It _was_ an accident, Cearul, trust me."  
Still sobbing softly, Northern Ireland nodded. "I didn't mean to!" he cried. "Cearul, I would never hurt you! Cearul, please," he added, looking up at his brother teary-eyed, sniffling softly. "Of all of you, I wanted _you_ to come most of all... Every second I was there, I was hoping you would come save me. I... I wanted my father to be there." At this, Ireland's eyes widened a little as well, filling with warmth rather than shock and horror, however. "I would _never_ hurt you, Cearul!" North said again, and Ireland then pulled him into a hug again.  
'It's okay, Coineach," he told the boy softly. "Really, it is. I'm not angry, I was... shocked. I-I knew it could've been you, or Allistair, but to hear it... made it a little too real for a moment. It's okay, I promise."  
Finally, Northern Ireland relaxed, and he smiled. "I really have the most amazing brothers I could wish for," he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning against Ireland. "Right from the start, all four of you have been the best brothers, and also the best parents -_all of you_\- that I could ever dream of..."  
Wales chuckled a bit and shook his head. "We're really not, Coineach," he said softly. "We did our best, but there are much better brothers on this planet than us, and much better parents, too." England nodded, sighing. Especially the 'better parents' part rung true for him. "Even though we've had such a good example of a perfect parent," Scotland sighed, chuckling a bit as well.  
But Northern Ireland shook his head. "No, not at all! You were _so much _better than Brittania!" His four brothers all stared at him in surprise then, and he flinched. _I'm sorry,_ he told the ancient country internally. _I'm sorry for betraying your secret as well..._ "At least all of you took care of me right from the start," he said nervously. "She... she didn't."  
"What?" Ireland exclaimed, souding almost angry. But Northern Ireland could only finish what he was telling them now. "She told me in a dream once," he sighed. "That she didn't even know she was having you, Cearul, until a few weeks before you were born. She was scared and didn't know what she was supposed to do with you. She... she was a bit like Arthur was with Peter at first." He shifted uncomfortably and looked away, adding quickly, "But she did love you. She loved all of you very much."

It was silent for a moment, but then Ireland sighed. "Well, I can't blame her," he mumbled, surprising Northern Ireland. He hadn't thought his brother would react so calmly. But Ireland was smiling. "She did her best, anyway, I know that. I just do. And if she really didn't know what was going on, it's only natural she didn't want to have anything to do with me at first." Then he laughed and looked at Scotland. "I'm glad she was over that before you were born, really! Two children would've been too much, otherwise, and she might just have abandoned us both."  
"But instead of that, we had the best mother one could wish for," Scotland added with a warm smile, then turned to North. "And I'm glad you think the same of us, laddie, despite everything we did and didn't do. It really means a lot to me."  
"Sure does," England mumbled, smiling wider than he had in a long time. "At least I did _something_ right when it comes to children, then!"  
"Even though I couldn't do much more for you than talk to you and have you on my lap when you were little," Wales added. "Thank you so much, Coineach."  
Northern Ireland gave each of them a hug, and then they spent the rest of the day talking about positive, lighter things again. Things they enjoyed, sharing jokes they'd heard, ending the day with a good, humorous film. The day ended up so much better than any of them had anticipated.

And then, on Good Friday the next year, 1998, the peace agreement that had been created over the months was finally signed by the majority of the involved parties, and was then named the Good Friday Agreement.  
The Troubles were officially over.

* * *

**And peace finally returned.**

**The next chapter will deal with the Good Friday Agreement more, and maybe also a flash-forward to the present, to see how they're doing now, as an epilogue...**

**And then it's over. (Oh, boy, I'd better start thinking of a summary for CYH...)**

**Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you liked this chapter!**


	42. Chapter 42

**I can't believe it's the last chapter.**

**I finished this yesterday but waited until today to post it for one reason -September 6 2014, exactly a year ago, the first chapter of Rising was posted on this website. And now, a year later, the story of the British-Irish family has finally come to an end.  
I have never been so proud of something I wrote. Thank you all who read this, rated it, followed it and reviewed on it.  
And a special thanks to Crossfire92, who has literally followed this story from beginning to end and has reviewed on every chapter. I have never had a reader so loyal and dedicated to brightening up my days by simply reviewing!**

**Well now... here it is, the last chapter of Trouble:**

* * *

It was 15 May 1998, a month after the Good Friday Agreement had come to be. All important parties, being the major political parties of Northern Ireland ang the British and Irish governments, had agreed on Good Friday, 10 April, that year. Now there would be referenda simultaneously in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. It had been agreed on rather early that, before the Agreement would come into effect, there had to be a vote among the people as well, and only if the majority would approve, would they go through with this.  
Now, a week before the referendum, Northern Ireland was going through a few major cities to inform the people of certain details of the Agreement and answer any questions, so that the people would clearly understand what they were voting for. He was in Derry this time, and as he stepped onto the stage, he knew there was one thing he'd have to take care of before he could start the important stuff. In Belfast it hadn't been so bad, but in other cities, where he wasn't quite so well known among his people in person, there was always, without fail, that one person who, upon seeing him, would gasp and exclaim, "He's just a boy!"  
And when it came this time, like the other times, he just smiled and said good-humouredly, "Why, of course I'm just a boy, miss. I only turned 87 just over two weeks ago: I'm a little pipsqueak compared to my 2000-year old brothers." At this, like the other times, some people laughed softly, and some would stare at him wide-eyed, not believing that a teenager could be twice their age or more, or that anyone could live for as long as he said his brothers had.  
This time, however, there was also someone who said, "But... 'national foundation day', so to speak, was less than two weeks ago?"  
Northern Ireland smiled a little wider and chuckled. "The Government of Ireland Act of 3 May 1921," he answered. "We have a smartypants in the room today! Well, I was born a week before Northern Ireland became official, but honestly... does that really matter? I thought we were here to talk about the Good Friday Agreement." At seeing one person in the crowd go red, without a doubt the one who'd said that, he quickly added, "But curiosity is no sin, of course. Honestly, I've been wondering about that myself for a long time as well.  
"But now for the important matter of today," he went on, looking over his people as he spoke, feeling a surge of pride. There hadn't been many instances where he'd spoken directly to his people like this yet, and it felt almost like this was what made him a true nation at last: he listened to his people, and they listened to him. There was now truly some mutual understanding between them, and the people knew they were part of him, and the other way around. "I will not go into full detail, because if I did, we would all have to camp out here. But I will explain in short the most important details of the Agreement, and will then answer your questions. First of all, the most important differences with the Sunningdale Agreement of the 70's, on a political level at least, are that the power will now be shared and that there will be inter-island co-operation. This means that Great Britain and Ireland will work together and share the power here in Northern Ireland. However, this country and its people will remain part of the United Kingdom, as it has always been. This has been decided because of the ma-"  
"And what about the people who want to unite with the Republic?" one person asked, interrupting him bluntly. "Have they been taken into consideration, or is this another British decision with no consideration for us?"  
"As a matter of fact," Northern Ireland answered calmly, though people interrupting him like this could always get him pissed off, "they have, sir, and if you hadn't interrupted me just now, I could've told you that sooner. We will stay within the UK, as the majority of the Northern Irish wish it so. However, the Catholics and nationalists that would prefer to join the Republic have not been forgotten: your nationalities will become optional. You will be free to choose whether you want to be an Irish citizen, or a British, or even both. This is because we, as Northern Irish,_ are_ both. This is a country on Irish soil, technically speaking, and thus many of the people are Irish. But a large percentage of the population is, or is descended from, British immigrants. Therefore, we are essentially a mixed people, and it will now be up to you to choose your own nationality." He saw his people consider this among themselves, talking softly for a moment, and he noticed that most seemed happy that they were given this choice. Some others would be happy after hearin what he'd say next, too. "But that is not all. Northern Ireland will only remain part of the United Kingdom for as long as the majority of the people wishes it so. Should ever a majority in both Northern Ireland and the Republic wish for a united Ireland, it shall be so. Until that they, we will remain right where we are now, in the United Kingdom." A shiver went down his spine as it always did when he spoke these words. It was the one part of the Agreement that scared him, as he did not know what would happen to him should Ireland be united again. He told himself that he had survived as a part of the United Kingdom so far, and his brothers had survived like that even longer, but they all had their own governments or at least representatives within the government. _The Principality of Wales,_ he told himself over and over again. _The __**Principality**__ of Wales. If Dylan can survive as a principality within the United __**Kingdom**__, then I can survive as part of an Irish Republic, should the day ever come._ But he was still nervous about it, and hoped with all his heart that his people would want to stay within the UK for a long time yet.

He spoke for about an hour more, telling his people about the political changes within Northern Ireland, but also those between Ireland and Great Britain, answering their questions, and finally telling them that what they would vote was their decision: no one would try to force them to choose either 'yes' or 'no'. Though he really wanted to tell them to just vote 'yes', and get it over with before there would be another 30 years of conflict. But he couldn't influence them like that, or at least, he wasn't allowed to. But, he figured, since he was hoping for a 'yes' so hard, his people _must _be thinking the same thing. They practically shared minds and opinions, after all.  
Then he spoke with some government officials for a little while as well before finally going back to his hotel room, where he flopped down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling for a little while. He was exhausted, doing this every day like this. Tomorrow would be his last round, and then he'd just have to wait for the referendum and its outcome. He sighed and closed his eyes. He knew his people understood him as a nation, but even so, he doubted they would ever understand him as a person. Did they know he was bothered by all this as much as they were, or even more so? Did they know he had a mind of his own as well, his own desires and hopes and fears? He was sure some of them did, but probably not all of them. "You're choosing for yourselves," he sighed then, curling up. "But you're also choosing for _me._ Please... choose right. Choose _yes._" Then he opened his eyes again and stared at the telephone for a while. He knew Ireland was doing the same as he was in his own cities, and North felt a little bad for him that he had to travel far greater distances than the younger nation. Being a small country had its advantages._ He should be done by now, too, right?_ he wondered for a moment, then went to the telephone. He was very glad that mobile phones existed nowadays, so that he could call Ireland without having to find out which hotel he was staying in and all that first. The battery in his own had given up earlier that afternoon, though, so he had to call with the landline. He waited silently as the phone rang, and when it was picked up, he just said quickly, "Hey there, Cearul, 's me."  
"Coineach! How are you doing, lad?" Ireland greeted him back, sounding cheerful but tired, just like North himself was most of the time now.  
"Fine," the teenager answered, sitting down on the side of a chair. "Sick of traveling around and holding the same speech day in and day out, but fine. I think things are going well here. I mean, I think they might vote 'yes'." Ireland hummed for a moment, and North added, "So how are those things going on your end?"  
"They seem willing enough to accept these terms," the older nation answered, sounding confident. "It will be accepted, Coineach, don't worry. In a week, you'll see, the Agreement will be accepted on both sides... and then the Troubles will really have ended."  
Northern Ireland's heart fluttered at the thought of it. Then he noticed traffic sounds on the other side of the line, and figured Ireland must still be on his way back from the conference. "You're not driving, are you?" he asked quickly, narrowing his eyes.  
Ireland laughed for a moment. "No, no, of course not! I went there on foot. Don't worry, I'm not doing anything stupid."  
"Good," North chuckled, and then he sighed once again, mumbling softly, "I wish I could drive a car. Then, at least, I wouldn't need a stupid taxi all the time."  
"I'm sure we can arrange something with the government," Ireland assured him. "They'll allow you to drive, I'm sure. I mean, I don't think they like it, either, having to pay for your taxi all the time!" At this, the younger nation grinned, already looking forward to it.  
"Great, thanks!" he said happilly, wanting to say more, but Ireland spoke sooner.  
"I'll have to go now, Coineach, but we'll talk again soon, all right?"  
"Sure!" Then Ireland said a quick, cheerful goodbye as well, and the two hung up again. Northern Ireland dropped onto his back on the bed again, but this time, he could only smile. For once, everything was going right. He knew very well that if the Good Friday Agreement was to be accepted, it wouldn't solve the situation, but it would mean that plenty of people were happy about the new rules. And then one day, it _would_ become the solution.

* * *

On the 23rd, the family was together in Belfast, awaiting the last counting of the votes and the results that would come minutes from now. They were all twitchy and impatient, very excited as they were pretty sure there would be good news. But at the same time, they were also worried that it would be a 'no', and that they could start negotiating all over again.  
"Let it be yes, let it be yes, _please let it be yes,_" Northern Ireland had been chanting softly for some time now, and finally, Scotland ruffled his dark ginger hair a bit to silence him. The teen stared up at his older brother with large, round eyes, as if to ask what was wrong about hoping for a positive outcome. But the Scot just smiled at him, amused. "We're all thinking the same thing, laddie," he told him softly. "But that doesn't mean you can annoy us all to death, all right?" Northern Ireland sighed and nodded, apologising but smiling himself. Then he looked up at Ireland, who looked as nervous as him, tapping on the table with his fingers constantly, fumbling with his rosary with his other hand. Scotland sighed and stared at him. "Same goes for you, old man. Stop it."  
"Sorry, sorry," the Irishman answered quickly, glancing around the room but not looking at any of them. "It's just... God, I haven't been so excited since St Patrick's Day!"  
"Cearul," Wales mumbled, looking at him in a mixture of worry and annoyance. "That was only five days ago."  
"I know!" Ireland just answered, staring back at his little brother now, eyes wide. "My poor old heart can't take it!" Northern Ireland chuckled at this, and the other three smirked as well, but their smiles and laughter all faded when a new voice answered to what Ireland had said.  
"If that's the case, sir, you might want to prepare yourself for a moment," a woman said, holding a sheet of paper -no doubt the results of the voting- as she, too, grinned just the slightest, also clearly amused. Then she cleared her throat. "It is my pleasure to announce that, with a staggering majority vote of over 70% in Northern Ireland and over _90%_ in the Republic of Ireland, the Belfast Agreement, nicknamed the Good Friday Agreement, has officially been accepted."

Immediately, Northern Ireland jumped up from where he sat, screaming and cheering in pure happiness and relief. "We did it, _we did it!_" he exclaimed, both laughing and crying at the same time. It felt like 30 years of worry, pain, misery and uncertainty just fell of his shoulders, and he felt as though he was in the clouds, light as a feather with sheer joy. He knew this wouldn't be the end of it, but he also knew that from here on, it could only get better. He could feel it.  
Then Scotland, sitting closest to him, pulled the boy against himself in a tight hug. "Congratulations, laddie!" he said, sounding just as relieved and happy as the boy was, and then Wales yanked North away from Scotland to embrace him himself. He didn't say anything, but he was smiling as wide as he had when he could first walk again, and that was more than enough to show how pleased he was. This time, North pulled away himself, turning around and practically jumping on England. "Thank you, Arthur, thank you so much!" he said hastily. "Thank you for terms everyone could agree upon!" England only laughed and hugged the younger nation back, just as happy as anyone. And lastly, North turned to Ireland.  
"90%," he choked out, tears of joy streaming down his face. "90%! Oh God, Cearul, I love your people!" Then he jumped on Ireland too, with such force that the chair toppled over and they both landed on the ground hard. But they didn't care. They were just hugging each other, both happier than they had ever been. 30 years of conflict could now be solved. This was the greatest hope they'd had in this entire situation, in all those years. Soon enough, Northern Ireland's laughter turned to crying, and he pressed his face against Ireland's shoulder. "I love you, Cearul..."  
"I love you too, lad," Ireland answered calmly, still lying on his back with the teenager on top of him, but he still did nothing to get out of that position, though North weighed enough to make breathing difficult for him now. "You know I do." Northern Ireland nodded and scrambled off him again, staggering over to England and hugging him once more, less enthusiatically, still crying. "And I love you, Arthur," he mumbled, holding his older brother tighter for a moment before letting go again, staring at Scotland and Wales. "A-and I love the two of you _so much_ as well," he sniffled. The two older nations just pulled him inbetween them and simultaneously gave him a last, firm hug.  
"It'll be all right now, Coineach," Wales mumbled, to which Scotland nodded and added, "Sure, violence won't cease immediately, but offically at least, the Troubles are over now, laddie. It's all over now."

North nodded and pulled away from them again, silencing himself slowly. He hadn't felt this good in ages. He looked at each of his brothers in turn now, eyes still watery and still shining with relief and happiness, practically overflowing with those emotions. "Thank you all so much," he said to them. "For helping to create this Agreement, for helping me throughout these years, for always taking care of me and trying to cheer me up even though I could be an ass sometimes... Thank you."  
But Ireland shook his head, much to the boy's surprise, and answered, "Thank _you_, Coineach, for never giving up hope. It kept us going, too. I know you got close to that point plenty of times, but you were never really there, and that is the most amazing thing about how you handled all this. Coineach, you went into the Troubles as a boy, and you came out of them as a man. Hardened by misfortune but also still gentle and loving towards us all. You are probably the strongest of us all."  
"You definitely are," England agreed, looking up at the boy -now nearly as tall as himself- with pride shining in his emerald eyes. "Coineach, we all went through some dark places the past decades..." He turned his gaze to Ireland briefly as he added, "Cearul and I most of all, mentally... But we all came out of it again, and Coineach, considering your age and everything you went through all this time, it is the most amazing thing I've ever seen that you managed it this well, too. And most of all, you managed it on your own. Well, with a little help from us, but mostly on your own. You didn't have problems quite like Cearul did, you didn't turn to things like drugs as I did... you did it with your own strength."  
"For God's sake, I needed a coma and memoryloss to come to terms with things," Ireland added, eyes downcast now. "And meanwhile, all of you were... and you pulled through."  
Northern Ireland just stared at the both of them, then at Wales and Scotland, who were looking at him with that same pride, and felt his heart flutter at all this praise. What else could he have done, he'd wondered many times. But at the same time he knew they were right, and coming out of a mess like this like he had -healthy, positive-minded and still sane- was an achievement if he ever saw one.

* * *

Months passed, and though violence didn't cease, it became less frequent. The summer passed, and the Good Friday Agreement was put into process throughout those months. Meanwhile England and Ireland were also working towards an agreement of their own, which did not, or at least hardly, involve Northern Ireland. It would become known as the British-Irish Agreement, coming into effect the next year.  
Scotland was appointed by the government that fall to teach Northern Ireland how to drive, though they all worked on that together in the end. The moment he finally sat behind the wheel, the teenage nation suddenly thought it wasn't quite as fun as he had thought at first, nervous and scared to actually even start the engine. "W-what if I crash into something?" he stammered, looking wide-eyed at Scotland beside him, and the Scot just smiled. "You did your theory," he told the young nation reassuringly. "You passed that, remember? You know what to do, laddie. And besides, I'm sitting right next to you."  
"And let's not forget," Wales added, leaning forward from where he sat in the back. "I'm right behind you!"  
"We'll get the wheel if anything goes wrong," Scotland finished, giving the boy a firm pat on the back. "Don't worry. Just drive."  
But Northern Ireland just got out of the car at that moment. "Tomorrow!" he called over his shoulder as he walked away quickly and nervously. "I'll go tomorrow!" Wales and Scotland just stared after him, amused, then at each other, wondering what they were going to do with the christmas present the family had planned if North remained too nervous to actually start driving. "Shall we put it on hold?" Wales mumbled, staring out the window. Scotland just shook his head. "He _will_ drive then," he said determinedly. And Wales nodded, not doubting that anymore now, either. Once the boy saw what his brothers did for him, he would drive for sure. Or else he'd pay them back.

Northern Ireland really did drive the next day, though he wasn't comfortable in a car until two weeks later, when he'd practiced a lot more. And by that christmas, the first one during which the brothers had really been this happy and carefree, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "_A car?_" he choked out, staring at said vehicle -which was his now. "Seriously?"  
"Seriously," England said, patting his little brother on the shoulder. "You've had a driver's license for three months now, kid, it was about time."  
"But-!" North exclaimed as he spun around and faced his brothers. "But a -a car is _so expensive_, and -Well, I know I've been saving money myself for one, but still-!"  
"We've bought it together," Wales then told him, ruffling his hair with a wide smile. "It's because you got your driver's license, because of the Good Friday Agreement passing, for your 87th birthday _and_ christmas in one. You deserve it, kid. And besides, we had the money for this before you even got your license."  
"Splitting the price into four really works wonders, you know," Scotland added, chuckling. Meanwhile Ireland just handed the teen the keys, which North dropped in sheer shock.  
"You can't be fucking serious," he still mumbled. "You can't be."  
"We are," England said, sighing. "Now pick up those keys, and let's just get inside again. My hands are freezing off."  
"Only your hands?" Ireland snickered, though he too was cold.  
"Piss off."

Once inside, the family lit the fireplace and sat down around that. "Can you believe it?" Ireland mumbled eventually, atring at the dark sky outside. It was a pity there were so many clouds, because otherwise there would be plenty of stars to gaze up at. "Just one more year until 2000."  
"Wow," England breathed, shivering for a moment and then shuffling closer to the fireplace. "Less than half a century to go until I'm really 2000 years old myself. Same for you, Dylan," he added, looking at his older brother. Wales just shrugged. He'd never really been bothered by his age, but always thoroughly enjoyed it when his brothers did, and he still found it amusing that Ireland had finally decided he was an 'old man' a few decades ago. Well, that's what you got for being the oldest country in Europe, though Greece wasn't too far behind. "I don't mind," he said. "I feel young, and that's enough for me."  
"Well, I don't," England sighed, resting his chin on his palms. "I mean, I do, but not young enough for that ink I got on my..." He went red then and quickly shut his mouth, though his brothers stared at him then, grinning wide.  
"What ink and where?" North demanded, getting up and creeping closer to him. Scotland got closer to him, too, and the two then simultaneously jumped on him, Scotland keeping him down and restraining him as Northern Ireland lifted his sleeves, and then his shirt, in search of what he knew must be there somewhere. England just struggled, yelling at them to stop and to let him go, then bursting into laughter. And eventually, he laughed too hard to even stuggle against them. But even by the time North had stripped him of his shirt and sweater, he couldn't find the tattoo anywhere. "Dammit, Arthur!" the boy laughed. "Please tell me it's on your legs, and not somewhere else." Still laughing, eyes teary by now, England just shook his head, unable to answer in any other way just yet. Then Wales jumped up. "Found it! Coineach -left waist!" Scotland and North just turned England onto his side now and pulled down his trousers just a little to get a better look at it, the other still laughing too hard to stop them, though he choked out a few feeble protests. "A guitar!" North exclaimed in triupmh, throwing his arms up in the air. "He's got a guitar on his waist, brothers!" Finally England managed to push him off and sit up again, pulling up his trousers and quickly slipping back into his shirt and sweater. "Oh, bugger off, lad!" he choked out, his laughter finally ebbing away. His face was red with lack of oxygen. "I got that two weeks ago. Nice reminder of my punk years, I figured." Then he got off the floor and sat back down again, shrugging. "But anyway, as I was saying, now that we were talking about age... I feel like an old, wrinkled grandpa with a tattoo. That's just weird."  
"You haven't aged since the late 1870's," Wales reassured him, patting him on his shoulder. "Don't worry, your first wrinkels are ages away yet -literally."  
"You have aged until then?" Northern Ireland then asked, curious and surprised. He'd always thought his brothers had been like this for hundreds of years already. But England nodded. "The first years are the fastest," he explained. "Eventually we all aged with about two years per century, but we did until not too long ago. I am still wondering why Cearul is that much older than us physically as well, as he stopped in the early 19th century already, but I don't really care either way."  
"Neither do I," Ireland said, crossing his arms. Then he looked at England, frowning a little. "The only thing I care about, Artie," he said disapprovingly, "is that you desecrated your body like that." England just sighed and rolled his eyes at this. Leave it to the family's devout catholic to disapprove of a simple tattoo. "There's nothing in your precious bible stating that it's bad to put ink under your skin, you know," he reminded his brother, but Ireland just laughed dryly and said that he would find something, and then he would pester his little brother with it until he had it removed.

"Before you turn this into a fight," Northern Ireland interrupted both of them, grinning wide. "I have a little christmas present for you, too." England and Ireland stared at each other for a moment, surprised, then looked at North as he fumbled in his pockets. Then he pulled out a tiny book, and held it out to England. "I made my decision," he said, and then England recognised the small book as a passport. It was a British one, and when he opened it, there was a small photograph of North in it, with a made-up date of birth and all of that. "You wanted to be a British citizen, then?" he asked, his eyes shining with pride and joy. But North just held up one hand and told them to hold on. Ireland, who had trouble hiding his disappointment, looked up in surprise and unhidden excitement as North handed a second passport to him -an Irish one. And when he opened it, it was nearly identical to the British passport of the boy. "A mixed nationality!" he said, looking at the teenager, his eyes shining.  
North just shrugged, though he smiled at seeing his two brothers so happy about such a simple thing. "It seemed like the perfect solution," he said simply. "Also, Arthur, take a look at the name."  
Surprised, England did, and his eyes lit up even more when he read it. "Coineach... Kirkland..." he mumbled, softly as though he couldn't believe it quite yet. "You used my last name?"  
"The one_ I_ made up for you!" Wales reminded his little brother with a playful shove, happiness evident on every inch of his face, too. "Okay, I'll change my name to Dylan Kirkland starting next year, too!"  
"Well, it's decided then," Scotland said, nodding approvingly. "I suppose Allistair Kirkland doesn't sound too bad, even if it is far from being a Scottish name."  
The family then turned to stare at Ireland, who stared back at them for a moment, still hesitating. Then he shrugged. "You know what? Whatever, Cearul Kirkland is acceptable. Maybe I will find a more Irish spelling for it, though."  
"But if you do that," Scotland reminded him, "and people want to pronounce your name in an English way, they'll just change Cearul to Carl, you know?" Ireland grimaced at that, and quickly said that he would just be a 'Kirkland', then, no Irish spelling needed.  
"Also, Cearul," Northern Ireland then said, shuffling a bit and then looking up at Ireland. "There's one more thing... I told you once, but you didn't hear me then. So I will tell you again, all of you." Then he looked at each of his brothers in turn as he said, "You will all be my brothers forever. Nothing is ever going to change that. But Cearul," he added, now looking at Ireland again. "If you still want to, you may be my father sometimes."  
Ireland looked like he stopped breathing for a moment, and then smiled wider than he had all year. "Thank you, Coineach. That's... You didn't have to, you know?"  
"I know that," Northern Ireland told him, walking over to him and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. "But I want it. Only sometimes."  
"Sometimes?"  
"You'll know when," the teenager said softly, "dad."

The two held each other for a moment longer, and then North turned to Scotland and Wales. "I'm sorry that the two only things I had to give were more for Arthur and Cearul than the two of you..."  
But the two older nations shook their heads, also smiling. "Coineach, you finally made up your mind about what you want," Wales told him gently. "And you seem happy with your choices this time. It's the best gift you could have given any of us." Scotland then nodded, agreeing, and North smiled. "Good. I'm glad you think so."

The years after that, there was relative peace again, though practically speaking, the Troubles weren't quite over yet. But to the British-Irish family, now also known as the Kirkland family, life was good for once. There would always be troubles, they knew, and they could live with that. But they passed into the 21st century as a family, the first time they ever did such a thing quite like this. The past centuries, they hadn't been quite as close as they were now, nor as complete.  
They went into the 21st century as each other's five favourite brothers and five best friends. And none of them could have wished for more.  
To them, the Troubles were finally over, and as was a century of battle and conflict. And the new century seemed brighter than any of them could've imagined.

*End*

* * *

**Ha... I'm getting choked up. I have never worked so long on something, and to have it ending...**

**But Historical Hetalia insn't over! I've written three chapters of the next story, Cross Your Heart, and _finally_ came up with a summary, so here's a teaser for it: **

**_Born in 1192 in the Teutonic Order. Told in 1211 that he isn't human. Prussia's life has been a search for the truth from the start. Finding yourself is never easy, especially if it's the person you least want to be._**

**I hope some of you will be giving that a try when it's posted here, too!**

**Once again, thank you all so so much for reading this until the end.  
I love you guys for that.**


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